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REPRESENTATIVES OF AMERICAN LITERATURE. 














' * -.ones -a-nci c 

Pleasant Hours 


WITH 


AMERICAN AUTHORS 

CONTAINING 

The Lives of Our Authors in Story Form, Their Portraits, 

Their Homes and Their Personal Traits, How 
They Worked and What They Wrote 

together with 

SELECTIONS FROM THEIR WRITINGS 

REPRESENTING ATE THAT IS BEST IN THE 


LIVES AND WORKS 

OF 

American Writers of Poetry and Prose 



Superbly Illustrated With Nearly 

ONE HUNDRED HALF-TONE ILLUSTRATIONS 


* 


MADE ORIGINALLY FOR THIS WORK 








THF LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

" r «n COHtfcS RjECKIVHO 

NOV, B 190-2 

CYv*/niGHT ENTffv 

Cl ASK — WV- i. No. 

'5'^4 ( -n 

COPY B 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1898, by 

W. E. SCULL, 

m. ine office 01 the Librarian ol Congress, at Washington* 
All rights reserved. 


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•ALL PERSONS ARE WARNED NOT TO INFRINGE UPON OUR COPYRIGHT BY USING EITHER THE 


MATTER OR THE PICTURES IN THIS VOLUME, 










INTRODUCTION. 


HE ink of a Nation’s Scholars is more sacred than the blood of its 
martyrs,”—declares Mohammed. It is with this sentence in mind, 
and a desire to impress upon our fellow countrymen the excellence, 
scope and volume of American literature, and the dignity and per¬ 
sonality of American authorship, that this work has been prepared 
and is now offered to the public. 

The volume is distinctly American, and, as such it naturally appeals to the 
patriotism of Americans. Every selection which it contains was written by an 
American. Its perusal, we feel confident, will both entertain the reader and quicken 
the pride of every lover of his country in the accomplishments of her authors. 

European nations had already the best of their literature before ours began. It 
is less than three hundred years since the landing of the Mayflower at Plymouth 
Rock, and the planting of a colony at Jamestown, marked the first permanent settle¬ 
ments on these shores. Two hundred years were almost entirely consumed in the 
foundation work of exploring the country, settling new colonies, in conflicts with 
the Indians, and in contentions with the mother country. Finally—after two cen¬ 
turies—open war with England served the purpose of bringing the jealous colonists 
together, throwing off our allegiance to Europe, and, under an independent constitu¬ 
tion, of introducing the united colonists—now the United States of Amevica into 

the sisterhood of nations, 



7 










































3 


INTRODUCTION. 


Thus, it was not until the twilight of the eighteenth century that we had an 
organized nationality, and it was not until the dawn of the nineteenth that we began 
to have a literature. Prior to this we looked abroad for everything except the pro¬ 
ducts of our soil. Neither manufacturing nor literature sought to raise its head 
among us. The former was largely prohibited by our generous mother, who wanted 
to make our clothes and furnish us with all manufactured articles; literature was 
frowned upon with the old interrogation, “Who reads an American book?” But 
simultaneously with the advent of liberty upon our shores was born the spirit of 
progress—at once enthroned and established as the guardian saint of American 
energy and enterprise. She touched the mechanic and the hum of his machinery 
was heard and the smoke of his factory arose as an incense to her, while our 
exhaustless stores of raw materials were transformed into things of use and beauty; 
she touched the merchant and the wings of commerce were spread over our seas; 
she touched the scholar and the few institutions of learning along the Atlantic sea¬ 
board took on new life and colleges and universities multiplied and followed rapidly 
the course of civilization across the mountains and plains of the West. 

But the spirit of progress did not stop here. Long before that time Dr. Johnson 
had declared, “The chief glory of every people arises from its authors,” and 
our people had begun to realize the force of the truth, which Carlyle afterwards 
expressed, that “A country which has no national literature, or a literature too insig¬ 
nificant to force its way abroad, must always be to its neighbors, at least in every im¬ 
portant spiritual respect, an unknown and unesteemed country.” The infant nation 
had now begun its independent history. Should it also have an independent literature ; 
and if so, what were the bases for it ? The few writers who had dared to venture 
into print had dealt with European themes, and laid their scenes and published their 
books in foreign lands. What had America to inspire their genius ? 

The answer to this question was of vital importance. Upon it depended our 
destiny in literature. It came clear and strong. To go elsewhere were to imitate 
the discontented and foolish farmer who became possessed of a passion for hunting 
diamonds, and, selling his farm for a song, spent his days in wandering over the 
earth in search of them. The man who bought this farm found diamonds in the 
yard around the house, and developed that farm into the famous Golconda mines. 
The poor man who wandered away had acres of diamonds at home. They were his 
if he had but been wise enough to gather them. 

o o 

So was America a rich field for her authors. Nature nowhere else offered such 
inspiration to the poet, the descriptive and the scientific writer as was found in 
America. Its mountains were the grandest; its plains the broadest; its ^rivers the 
longest; its lakes were inland seas; its water-falls were the most sublime; its caves 
were the largest and most wonderful in the world; its forests bore every variety of 


INTRODUCTION. 


9 


vegetable life and stretched themselves from ocean to ocean ; it had a soil and a 
climate diversified and varied beyond that of any other nation; birds sang for us 
whose notes were heard on no other shores; we had a fauna and a flora of our own. 
For the historian there was the aboriginal red man, with his unwritten past pre¬ 
served only in tradition awaiting the pen of the faithful chronicler; the Colonial 
period was a study fraught with American life and tradition and no foreigner 
could gather its true story from the musty tomes of a European library; the Revo¬ 
lutionary period must be recorded by ail American historian. For the novelist and 
the sketch writer our magnificent land had a rich legendary lore, and a peculiarity 
of manners and customs possessed by no other continent. The story of its frontier, 
with a peculiar type of life found nowhere else, was all its own. 

It was to this magnificent prospect, with its inspiring possibilities that Progress,— 
the first child of liberty—stood and pointed as she awoke the slumbering genius of 
independent American Authorship, and, placing the pen in her hand bade her 
write what she would. Thus the youngest aspirant in literature stood forth with 
the freest hand, in a country with its treasures of the past unused, and a prospective 
view of the most magnificent future of the nations of earth. 

What a field for literature ! What an opportunity it offered ! How well it has 
been occupied, how attractive the personality, how high the aims, and how admir¬ 
able the methods of those who have done so, it is the province of this volume to 
demonstrate. With this end in view, the volume has been prepared. It has been 
inspired by a patriotic pride in the wonderful achievement of our men and women 
in literature, in making America, at the beginning of her second century as a nation, 
the fair and powerful rival of England and Continental Europe in the field of 
letters. 

Wonderful have been the achievements of Americans as inventors, mechanics, 
merchants—indeed, in every field in which they have contended—but we are pre¬ 
pared to agree with Hr. Johnson that “ The chief glory of a nation is its authors; ” 
and, with Carlyle, that they entitle us to our greatest respect among other nations. 
The reading of the biographies and extracts herein contained should impress the 
reader with the debt of gratitude we as a people owe to those illustrious men and 
women, who, while wreathing their own brows with chaplets of fame, have written 
the name, “America ” high up on the literary roll of honor among the greatest 
nations of the world. 








ACKNOWLEDGMENTS. 


1 


Our obligation to the following publishers is respectfully and gratefully acknowledged, since, without the 
courtesies and assistance of these publishers and a number of the living authors, it would have been 
impossible to issue this volume. 

Copyright selections from the following authors are used by the permission of and special arrangement 
with MESSRS. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & GO., their authorized publishers:—Ralph Waldo 
Emerson, Henry W. Longfellow, Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, Bayard Taylor, Maurice 
Thompson, Colonel John Hay, Bret Harte, William Dean Howells, Edward Bellamy, Charles Egbert 
Craddock (Miss Murfree), Elizabeth Stuart Phelps (Ward), Octave Thanet (Miss French), Alice Cary, 
Phoebe Cary, Charles Dudley Warner, E. C. Stedman, James Parton, John Fiske and Sarah Jane Lippincott. 

TO THE CENTURY CO ., we are indebted for selections from Richard Watson Gilder, James 
Whitcomb Riley and Francis Richard Stockton. 

TO CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS , for extracts from Eugene Field. 

TO HARPER & BROTHERS , for selections from Will Carleton, General Lew Wallace, W. D. 
Howells, Thomas Nelson Page, John L. Motley, Charles Follen Adams and Lyman Abbott. 

TO ROBERTS BROTHERS , for selections from Edward Everett Hale, Helen Hunt Jackson, 
Louise Chandler Moulton and Louisa M. Alcott. 

TO ORANGE , JUDD & CO ., for extracts from Edward Eggleston. 

TO DODD, MEAD & CO., for selections from E. P. Roe, Marion Harland (Mrs. Terhune), Amelia 
E. Barr and Martha Finley. 

TOD. APPLETON & CO ., for Wm. Cullen Bryant and John Bach McMaster. 

TO MACMILLAN & CO., for F. Marion Crawford. 

10 HORACE L. TRAUBEL , Executor, for Walt Whitman. 

TO ESTES & LAURIAT , for Gail Hamilton (Mary Abigail Dodge). 

TO LITTLE, BROWN & CO., for Francis Parkman. 

TO FUNK & WAGNALLS, for Josiah Allen’s Wife (Miss Holley). 

TO LEE & SHEPARD, for Yawcob Strauss (Charles Follen Adams), Oliver Optic (William T. 
Ydams) and Mary A. Livermore. 

TO J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., for Bill Nye (Edgar Wilson Nye). 

TO GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, for Uncle Remus (Joel C. Harris). 

TO TICK NOR & CO., for Julian Hawthorne. 

TO PORTER & COATES, for Edward Ellis and Horatio Alger. 

TO WILLIAM F. GILL & CO., for Whitelaw Reid. 

TO C. II. HUDGINS & CO ., for Henry W. Grady. 

TO THE “ COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE ,” for Julian Hawthorne. 

TO T. B. PETERSON & BROS., for Frances Hodgson Burnett. 

TO J AS. R. OSGOOD & CO., for Jane Goodwin Austin. 

TO GEO. R. SHEPARD , for Thomas Wentworth Higginson. 

TO J. LEWIS STACKPOLE, for John L. Motley. 

Besides the above, we are under special obligation to a number of authors who kindly furnished, in 
answer to our request, selections which they considered representative of their writings. 



PLEASANT HOURS WITH AMERICAN AUTHORS. 


PART 1 . The First American Author of Renown, Washington Irving, . 23 

“ 2. Great Poets of America,.33 

# 

“ 3. Our Most Noted Novelists,.165 

“ 4. Famous Women Novelists,.218 

“ 5. Representative Women Poets of America, ..... 252 

6. Our National Humorists,.271 

“ 7. Popular Writers for Young People,.298 

“ 8. Noted Journalists and Magazine Contributors, . . . 327 

“ 9. Miscellaneous Masterpieces and Gems for Recitation, . . 359 


ii 





FAMOUS AMERICAN AUTHORS 


WHOSE WRITINGS, BIOGRAPHIES AND PORTRAITS APPEAR IN THIS VOLUME. 


Abbott, Lyman. 

Adams, Charles Follen ( Yawcob Strauss). 
Adams, Wm. T. ( Oliver Optic). 

Alcott, Louisa May. 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. 

Alger, Horatio, Jr. 

Artemus Ward ( Charles F. Browne). 

Austin, Jane Goodwin. 

"Barr, Amelia E. 

Bellamy, Edward. 

Bill Nye (Edgar Wilson Nye). 

Browne, Charles F. (Artemus Ward)A 
Bryant, William Cullen. 

Burdette, Robert J. 

Burnett, Frances Hodgson. 

"Cable, George W. 

Carleton, Will. 

Cary, Alice. 

Cary, Phoebe. 

Clemens, Samuel L. (Mark Tivain). 

Cooper, James Fenimore. 

-Craddock, Charles Egbert (Mary N. Murfree) 
Crawford, Francis Marion. 

Dana, Charles A. 

Davis, Richard Harding. 

Dodge, Mary Abigail ( Gail Hamilton)A 
Dodge, Mary Mapes.* 

Eggleston, Edward. 

Ellis, Edward. 

' Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 

-Field, Eugene. 

Finley, Martha. 

French, Alice (Octave Thanet). 

Gail Hamilton (Alary Abigail Dodge)A 
Gilder, Richard Watson. 


Greeley, Horace. 

Grace Greenwood (Sarah J. Lippincott). 
Hale, Edward Everett. 

Halstead, Murat. 

Harris, Joel Chandler ( Uncle Remus). 

Harte, Bret. 

Hawthorne, Julian. 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. 

Hay, John. 

Holley, Marietta (Josialr Allen’s Wife)A 
Holmes, Oliver Wendell. 

Howells, William Dean. 

Irving, Washington. 

Jackson, Helen Hunt. 

Joaquin Miller ( Cincinnatus Heine Miller). 
Josiali Allen’s Wife (Marietta Holley)A 
Josh Billings (Henry W. Shaw). 

Larcom, Lucy. 

Lippincott, Sarah Jane ( Grace Greenwood). 
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. 

Lowell, James Russell. 

Mark Twain (Samuel L. Clemens). 

Marion Harland (Mary V. Terhune). 

Miller, Cincinnatus Pleine (Joaquin). 
Moulton, Louise Chandler. 

Murfree, Mary N. (Chas. Egbert Craddock ), 
Nye, Edgar Wilson (Bill Rye). 

Oliver Optic ( William T. Adams). 

Octave Thanet (Alice French). 

Page, Thomas Nelson. 

Park man, Francis.* 

Poe, Edgar Allen. 

Reid, Whitelaw. 

Riley, James Whitcomb. 

Roe, Edward Payson. 


* No portrait. 
12 





FAMOUS AMERICAN AUTHORS. 


*3 


Shaw, Albert. 

Shaw, Henry W. (Josh Billings). 
Sigourney, Lydia H. 

Smith, Elizabeth Oakes., 
Stockton, Frank. 

Stoddard, Richard Henry. 
Stowe, Harriet Beecher. 

Taylor, Bayard.* 

Terhune, Mary Virginia. 


Thompson, Maurice.* 

Wallace, General Lew. 

Ward, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, 
Watterson, Henry. 

Whitman, Walt. 

Whittier, John Greenleaf. 

Willis, Nathaniel Parker. 

Whitcher, Mrs. (The Widow BedoU /. 

* No portrait. 



“Under a spreading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands.” 


Longfeltiw. 















TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

WASHINGTON IRVING, THE GREAT PIONEER IN AMERICAN LETTERS. 


PAGE 


Birth and Ancestors. 23 

Named After George Washington. 23 

Early Success as a Journalist. 24 

A Two Years’ Trip in Europe. 24 

Seventeen Years Abroad. 25 


The Winning Character of his Genius 
‘The Organ of Westminster Abbey’. 

‘ Baltus Van Tassel’s Farm ’. 

‘ Columbus at Barcelona ’. 

‘ The Galloping Hessian ’. 


WILLIAM CULLEN BUY ANT. 

An Author at Fourteen. 33 

The Influence of his Father. 34 

Bryant’s Best Known Poems. 35 

Personal Appearance. 35 

A Long and Useful Life. 35 

‘ Thanatopsis ’. 36 

‘ Waiting By the Gate ’. 36 

‘ Blessed are They That Mourn ’. 37 

‘ Antiquity of Freedom ’. 38 

‘ To a Water Fowl ’. 38 

‘ Robert of Lincoln ’. 39 

‘ Drought ’. 39 

‘ The Past ’. 40 

‘ The Murdered Traveler ’. 40 

4 The Battle-Field ’. 41 

‘ The Crowded Street ’. 42 

‘ Fitz Greene Halleck (Notice of) ’. 42 

4 A Corn-Shucking in South Carolina ’. 43 

EDGAR ALLEN POE. 

Comparison with Other American Poets... 45 

Place of Birth and Ancestry. 45 

Career as a Student. 46 

The Sadness of his Life and Its Influence 

Upon his Literature. 46 

Conflicting Statements of his Biographers.. 47 

Great as a Story Writer and as a Poet. 47 

His Literary Labors and Productions. 48 

4 The City in the Sea ’. 49 

‘Annabel Lee’. 50 

‘ To Helen ’. 50 

‘ Israfel ’. 52 

‘ To One in Paradise ’. 52 

‘ Lenore ’. 53 

‘The Bells’. 53 

‘ The Raven ’. 55 

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 

His Place in Literature. 58 

14 


Comparison with American and English 

Poets. 

His Education, Collegemates and Home... 

The Wayside Inn (A view of). 

His Domestic Life. His Poems. 

His Critics, Poe, Margaret Fuller, Duyckink 

Prose Works and Translations. 

Longfellow’s Genius. 

‘ The Psalm of Life ’. 

‘ The Village Blacksmith ’. 

‘ The Bridge ’. 

‘ Resignation ’. 

‘ God’s Acre ’. 

‘ Excelsior ’. 

‘ The Rainy Day ’. 

‘ The Wreck of the Hesperus ’. 

‘ The Old Clock On the Stairs ’. 

‘ The Skeleton in Armour ’. 

‘ King Witlaf’s Drinking Horn ’. 

‘ Evangeline On the Prairie ’. 

‘ Literary Fame (Prose) ’. 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

The Difficulty of Classifying Emerson. 

The Liberator of American Letters. 

A Master of Language. 

Emerson and Franklin. 

Birth, Education, Early Life.. 

Home at Concord, Brook-Farm Enterprise. 

Influence on Other Writers. 

Modern Communism and the New Theology 
‘ Hymn Sung at the Completion of the Con¬ 
cord Monument (1836) ’. 

‘ The Rhodora ’. 

‘ A True Hero ’. 

4 Mountain and Squirrel ’. 

‘ The Snow-Storm ’. 

‘ The Problem ’. 

4 Traveling ’. 
















































































CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


‘The Compensation of Calamity’. 78 

‘ Self Reliance.’. 78 

‘Nature’. 78 


JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

Whittier’s Humble Birth, Ancestry, Education.80 


Poet of the Abolitionists. 81 

His Poems and His Prose. 81 

Our Most Distinctively American Poet. 82 

New England's History Embalmed in Verse 82 

‘ My Playmate ’. 83 

‘The Changeling’. 83 

‘The Workskip of Nature ’. 85 

‘ The Bare-foot Boy ’. 85 

‘ Maud Muller ’. 86 

‘ Memories ’. 87 

‘ In Prison For Debt ’. 88 

‘The Storm’ (From ‘ Snow Bound ’). 89 

‘ Ichabod ’. 90 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

Admired by the English-speaking World... 91 

His Education and Popularity. 91 

Early Poems. 92 

Autocrat and Professor at the Breakfast 

Table. 92 

Holmes’ Genial and Lovable Nature. 92 

‘ Bill and Joe ’. 94 

‘ Union and Liberty ’. 94 

‘ Old Ironsides ’. 95 

‘ My Aunt ’. 95 

‘The Height of the Ridiculous ’.. 95 

‘ The Chambered Nautilus ’. 96 

‘ Old Age and the Professor ’ (Prose). 96 

‘ The Brain ’ (Prose). 97 

1 My Last Walk with the School Mistress ’. 97 

‘ A Random Conversation on Old Maxims, 

Boston and other Towns ’. 98 


JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 


Profoundest of American Poets. 100 

Early Life and Beginning in Literature .... 100 

Marriage, and the Influence of his Wife... 101 

Home at Cambridge (view of). 101 

Longfellow’s Poem on Mrs. Lowell’s Death, 101 

Humorous Poems and Prose Writings. 102 

Public Career of the Author. 103 

How Lowell is Regarded by Scholars. 103 

* Phe Gothic Genius’ (From ‘TheCathedral ’) 104 




PA(*’ 

‘ The Rose ’. 104 

‘The Heritage ’. 105 

‘ Act For Truth ’. 106 

‘ The First Snow-Fall ’. 106 

‘ Fourth-of-July Ode ’. 107 

‘ The Dandelion ’. 107 

‘ The Alpine Sheep’ (by Mrs. Lowell). 108 

BAYARD TAYLOR. 

Life as a Farmer Boy. 109 

Education. 109 

His First Book. 109 

Encouragement from Horace Greeley. 109 

A Two Years’ Tramp Through Europe- 109 

A Most Delightful Book of Travel. 109 

An Inveterate Nomad. 109 

Public Career of the Author. 110 

4 The Bison Track ’. 110 

‘The Song of the Camp ’. Ill 

‘ Bedouin Song’. Ill 

‘ The Arab to the Palm ’. Ill 

‘Life on the Nile ’. 112 

NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 

A Devotee of Fashion. 114 

Birth and Ancestors. 114 

Educational Facilities. 114 

His First Poems. 114 

A Four Years’ Tour in Europe. 115 

Marriage and Home. 115 

A Second Journey to England. 115 

An Untiring Worker. 115 

Death. 115 

‘ David’s Lament for Absalom ’. 116 

‘ The Dying Alchemist ’. 117 

‘ The Belfry Pigeon ’. 118 


RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 

His Humble Origin and Early Struggles... 119 

Introduction into Literature. 119 

Stoddard’s Style. 120 

Literary Dinner in His Honor (1892). 120 

Ik. Marvel’s Letter and Whitcomb Riley’s 

Poem. 120 

‘ A Curtain Call ’. 121 

‘ Hymn to the Beautiful ’. 121 

‘ A Dirge ’. 122 

‘ The Shadow of the Hand ’. 123 

‘A Serenade’. 123 













































































i6 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


WALTER WHITMAN (WALT). 

The Estimates of Critics. 124 

Charms of Whitman’s Poetry. 125 

Life and Works of the Poet. 125 

Biographies of the Poet. 125 

‘ Barest Thou Now, 0 Soul ’. 126 

‘ O Captain ! My Captain ’. 126 

‘In All, Myself’.. 126 

‘Old Ireland’. 127 

‘Paean of Joy’. 127 

JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON. 

Birth and Early Life. 128 

A Thorough Southerner. 128 

Man of Letters and Scientist. 128 

Chief of the State G-eological Survey. 128 

Works of the Author. 128 

‘Ceres’. 129 

‘Diana’. 129 

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 

At the Head of Modern Lyrical Writers_ 130 

Birth and Early Life. 130 

Mercantile Career. 130 

War Correspondent. 130 

Life in Boston. 130 

Works. 130 

Visit to England. 131 

‘Alec Yeaton’s Son ’. 132 

‘ On Lynn Terrace ’. 132 

‘Sargent’s Portrait of Edwin Booth at 

“The Players.” ’. 133 

RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 

Purity of Sentiment and Delicacy of Ex¬ 
pression . 134 

Education and Early Life. 134 

Journalist. 134 

Editor of ‘ ‘ Hours at Home ”. 134 

Politician and Reformer. 135 

A Staunch Friend of our Colleges. 135 

A Man of Exalted Ideals. 135 

‘ Sonnet (After the Italian) ’. 136 

‘ The Life Mask of Abraham Lincoln ’. 136 

‘Sheridan’. 136 

4 Sunset From the Train ’. 137 

* O Silver River Flowing to the Sea ’. 137 

‘There is Nothing New Under the Sun ’.... 137 

* Memorial Day ’. 138 

‘A Woman’s Thought’. 138 

2 


PAGE 

JOHN HAY. 

His Western Birth and Education. 139 

Service to President Lincoln. 139 

Military Career. 139 

Appointed Ambassador to GreatBritain- 139 

A List of His Books. 139 

How He Came to Write “ Little Breeches ” 140 

‘ Little Breeches’. 140 

‘ Jim Bludso ’. 141 

‘ How it Happened ’. 141 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 

Great Popularity with the Masses. 143 

A Poet of the Country People. 143 

Birth and Education. 144 

First Occupation. 144 

Congratulated by Longfellow. 144 

Mr. Riley’s Methods of Work. 144 

The Poet’s Home. 145 

Constantly “ on the Wing ”. 145 

‘A Boy’s Mother ’. 145 

‘ Thoughts on the Late War ’. 115 

‘Our Hired Girl’.. 146 

‘The Raggedy Man ’. 146 

BRET HARTE. 

The Poet of the Mining Camp. 147 

Birth and Education. 147 

Emigrated to California.. 147 

Schoolteacher and Miner. 141 

Position on a Frontier Paper. 147 

Editorial Position on the “ Golden Era ” .. 147 

Secretary of the U. S. Mint at San Francisco. 148 

In Chicago and Boston. 148 

U. S. Consul to Crefield and Glasgow. 148 

A List of his Works. 149 

‘ The Society Upon the Stanislaus ’. 149 

‘ Dickens in Camp ’. 150 

EUGENE FIELD. 

The “ Poet of Child Life ”. 151 

Troups of Children for his Friends. 151 

Peace-maker Among the Small Ones. 151 

A Feast with his Little Friends. 151 

A Devoted Husband. 151 

Congenial Association with hisFello w-workers 152 

Birth and Early Life. 152 

His Works. 152 

‘ Our Two Opinions ’. 153 

‘Lullaby’. 153 

‘A Dutch Lullaby ’. 153 

‘A Norse Lullaby ’. 154 





















































































CONTENTS. 


17 


PAGE 


WILL CARLETON. 

His Poems Favorites for Recitation. 155 

Birth and Early Life. 155 

Teacher, Farmhand and College Graduate.. 155 

Journalist and Lecturer. 155 

A List of his Works. 156 

‘ Betsy and I Are Out ’. 156 

1 Gone With a Handsomer Man ’. 157 

CINCINNATUS HINER MILLER (JOAQUIN). 

Removal from Indiana to Oregon. 160 

Experiences in Mining and Filibustering ... 160 

Marries and Becomes Editor and Lawyer... 160 

Visit to London to Seek a Publisher. 161 

4 Thoughts of My Western Home ’. 162 

‘ Mount Shasta ’. 162 

4 Kit Carson’s Ride ’. 163 

‘J. Miller’s Alaska Letter’. 164 

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 

First American Novelist. 165 

Birth and Childhood. 165 

The Wilderness his Teacher. 165 

Sailor Life. 166 

Marriage and Home. 166 

“The Spy”. 166 

Plaudits From Both Sides of the Atlantic. •. 166 

The First Genuine Salt-water Novel. 167 

Removal to New York. 167 

A Six Years’ Visit to Europe. 167 

His Remaining Nineteen Years. 168 

4 Encounter With a Panther ’. 169 

‘The Capture of a Whale ’. 171 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 

The Greatest of American Romancers. 173 


Birth, Ancestors, and Childhood. 173 

Twelve Years of Solitary Existence. 173 

His First Book. 174 

“ Twice Told Tales ”. 174 

A Staunch Democrat. 175 

Marriage and the “ Old Manse ”. 175 

The Masterpiece in American Fiction. 175 

Books Written by Hawthorne. 176 

Death and Funeral. 176 

‘Emerson and the Emersonites ’. 177 

4 Pearl ’. 177 

4 Sights From a Steeple ’. 179 

4 A Reminiscence of Early Life ’. 179 

2 PH. 


PAQB 


EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 

Among the Best Known American Authors 181 

A Noted Lecturer. 181 

Birth and Education. 181 

Career as a Clergyman. 181 

Newspaper and Magazine Work. 3 81 

A Prominent Short-Story-teller. 182 

An Historical Writer of Great Prominence. 182 

Patriotic Interest in Public Affairs. 182 

‘Lost’. 182 


WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 

One of the Greatest of Modern American 


Novelists. 184 

Birth and Early Life. 184 

Editor of the “ Ohio State Journal ”. 184 

His First Volume of Verse. 184 

His “ Life of Abraham Lincoln ”.. 184 

Consul to Venice. 184 

Mr. Howells’ Works. 185 

Editor of the “Atlantic Monthly ”. 185 

‘ The First Boarder ’. 186 

‘ Impressions on Visiting Pompeii ’. 187 

1 Venetian Vagabonds ’. 188 


GENERAL LEW WALLACE. 

Began His Literary Career Late in Life.... 189 


Birth and Early Life. 189 

Lawyer and Soldier. 189 

Governor of Utah. 189 

Appointed Minister to Turkey. 189 

His Most Popular Book. 190 

Enormous Circulation. 3 90 

‘Description of Christ ’. 190 

‘ The Prince of India Teaches Re-incarnation ’ 190 

4 The Prayer of the Wandering Jew ’. 191 

‘ Death of Montezuma ’. 191 

‘ Description of Virgin Mary’. 192 

EDWARD EGGLESTON. 

Birth and Early Life. 193 

A Man of Self-culture. 193 

His Early Training. 193 

Religious Devotion and Sacrifice. 194 

Beginning of his Literary Career. 194 

What Distinguishes his Novels. 194 

List of his Chief Novels and Stories. 194 

* Spelling down the Master ’. 195 




















































































CONTENTS. 


tS 


PAGE 

vHOMAS NELSON PAGE. 

Birth and Earliest Recollections. 198 

Childhood, Ancestors, and Education. 198 

His First Literary Success. 198 

“ In Ole Virginia ” and other stories. 198 

Prominent Journalist and Lecturer. 199 

A Tour Abroad. 199 

‘Old Sue’. 199 

EDWARD PAYSON ROE. 

Great Popularity Among the Masses. 201 

The Character of his Novels. 201 

Birth and Education. 201 

Served as Chaplain During the Civil War . 201 

List of His Works. 201 

‘ Christine, Awake For Your Life ’. 202 

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. 

“The Most Versatile of Modern Novelists’’. 204 

Birth, Ancestors, and Early Life. 204 

Editor on the “Allahabad Herald ”. 204 

Varied Experiences. 204 

How he Came to Write “ Mr. Isaacs ”. 204 

His Most Popular Novels. 205 

A Novel Written in Twenty-four Hours- 205 

His Other Chief Works. 205 

‘ Horace Bellingham ’. 206 

‘ In the Himalayas ’. 206 

FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON. 

A Prolific and Popular Author. 207 

Birth and Educational Training. 207 

Engraver and Designer. 207 

One New Book Almost Every Year. 207 

Some of his Best Kno wn Books. 207 

‘ The End of a Career ’. 208 

EDWARD BELLAMY. 

A Most Remarkable Sensation. 211 

100,000 Copies Per Year. 211 

Mr. Belamy’s Ideal. 211 

Birth and Education. 211 

His Books. 211 

An Ideal Home. 212 

‘ Music in the Year 2000 ’. 212 

GEORGE W. CABLE. 

“ Circumstances Make the Man ”. 214 

Birth and Early Life. 214 

Service in the Confederate Army. 214 

Errand Boy in a Store. 214 


PAGK 

On the “ New Orleans Picayune ”. 214 

Di^otes his Life to Literature. 215 

His Most Prominent Works. 215 

‘The Doctor’. 215 

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

Ancestors, B” th, and Girlhood. 218 

Removal to Cincinnati. 218 

A Trip Across the River. 218 

Marriage. 218 

Severe Trials. 219 

A Memorable Year. 219 

“ Uncle Tom’s Cabin ”. 220 

Her Pen Never Idle. 221 

Removal to Hartford, Conn. 221 

Her Death. 221 

‘ The Little Evangelist ’. 222 

‘The Other World ’. 225 

M. VIRGINIA TERHUNE (MARION 
HARLAND). 

Wide Variety of Talent. 226 

Birth and Education. 226 

Marriage and Home. 226 

Her Most Prominent Works. 226 

‘ A Manly Hero ’. 227 

MARY ABIGAIL DODGE (GAIL HAMILTON). 

Essayist, Critic and Novelist. 228 

Birth and Education. 228 

Career as a Writer. 228 

Her Published Volumes. 228 

The Only Authorized Life of J. G. Blaine.. 229 
‘ Fishing ’. 229 

HELEN HUNT JACKSON. 

Helen Hunt’s Cabin. 231 

Birth and Education. 231 

Marriage and Removal to Newport, R. I. .. 231 

Her First Poems. 232 

Great Distinction as a Writer. 232 

Removal to Colorado. 232 

At the Foot of Pike’s Peak. 232 

List of her Most Prominent Works. 232 

Death and Burial Place. 232 

‘ Christmas Night at St. Peter’s. 232 

‘ Choice of Colors ’. 233 

FRANCES H. BURNETT. 

Pluck, Energy and Perseverance. 235 

Her First Story. 235 

















































































CONTENTS. 


Marriage and Tour in Europe. 

Her Children Stories. 

A Frequent Contributor to Periodicals. 

‘ Pretty Polly P. ’. 

MARY N. MURFREE (CIIAS. EGBERT 
CRADDOCK). 

An Amusing Story. 

Birth, Ancestry and Misfortunes. 

A Student of Humanity. 

Her Style Bold and Full of Humor. 

‘ The Confession ’. 

ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD. 

Favorable Reception of 11 Gates Ajar !”- 

An Early Writer. 

A Long Series of Books. 

Marriage and Home. 

Pier Purpose Always High. 

1 The Hands at Hayle and Kelso’s ’. 

AMELIA E. BARR. 

Popularity of her Works. 

Her Sorrows and Hardships. 

Birth and Early Education. 

Marriage and Travels. 

Death of her Husband and Four Sons. 

An Instantly Successful Book.. 

‘ Little Jan’s Triumph ’. 

‘ The Old Piano ’. 

ALICE FRENCH (OCTAVE THANET). 

A Genuine Yankee Woman. 

Her Puritan Ancestry. 

Education and First Manuscript. 

Her First Book. 

Her Most Prominent Publications. 

Her nom-de-plume. 

Philosopher, Artist and Novelist. 

An Assiduous Student of her Subjects. 

‘ Two Lost and Found ’. 

JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN. 

A Famous Daughter of the “Pilgrims 

Birth and Parents. 

A List of her Best Books. 

Her Personality. 

‘An Afternoon in Nantucket ’. 

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 

The Most Prolific of American Women 
Writers. 


T 9 

PAGE 


Critical Estimate of her Works. 252 

Birth and Educational Advantages. 252 

Her First Book. 253 

Some of her Other Works. 253 

A Tour of Europe. 253 

Death. 253 

‘ Columbus ’. 254 

‘ The Alpine Flowers ’. 254 

‘Niagara’. 254 

‘ Death of an Infant ’. 255 

‘A Butterfly on a Child’s Grave ’. 255 

ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 

Ancestors and Birth. 256 

A Liberal Contributor to Periodicals. 256 

Her Published Works. 256 

‘ The Step-mother ’. 257 

‘ Guardian Angels ’. 257 

‘ The Brook ’. 258 

‘ The April Rain ’. 259 

‘ Flowers ’. 259 

‘Eros and Anteros ’. 259 

LUCY LARCOM. 

Operative in a Cotton Factory. 260 

Birth and Early Life. 260 

Her First Literary Production. 260 

Some of her Best Works.;.. 260 

The Working Woman’s Friend. 261 

‘ Hannah Binding Shoes ’. 261 

ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 

Their Birth and Early Lot. 262 

Encouragement From Editors. 262 

Their First Volume. 262 

Some of their Prominent Works. 262 

A Comparison Between the Two Sisters.... 263 

One in Spirit through Life. 263 

United in Death. 263 

‘ Pictures of Memory ’. 264 

‘ Nobility ’. 264 

‘ The Gray Swan ’. 264 

‘ To the Evening Zephyr ’. 265 

‘ Death Scene ’. 265 

‘ Memories ’. 266 

Equal to Either Fortune ’. 266 

‘ Light ’. 267 

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 

Birth and Education. 268 

Her First Book at Nineteen Years. 268 


PAGE 

235 

235 

235 

236 

238 

238 

238 

239 

239 

240 

240 

240 

240 

240 

241 

242 

242 

242 

242 

242 

242 

243 

244 

245 

245 

245 

245 

245 

246 

246 

246 

246 

248 

248 

248 

249 

249 

252 


















































































20 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


Her Following Publications. 268 

Residence in Boston and Trips Abroad. 269 

A Systematic Worker. 269 

Personal Friendship. 269 

‘ If There Were Dreams to Sell ’. 269 

‘Wife to Husband ’. 269 

4 The Last Good-Bye’. 270 

‘Next Year’. 270 

‘My Mother’s Picture ’. 270 

FRANCES M. WHITCHER (THE WIDOW 
BEDOTT). 

Her nom-de-plume. 271 

Richness of Humor. 271 

Birth, Childhood and Education. 272 

Marriage and Literary Fame. 272 

Removal from Elmira, N. Y. 272 

‘ Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles ’. 272 

‘The Widow’s Poetry and her Comments on 

the Same About Hezekiah ’. 273 

CHARLES F. BROWN (ARTEMUS WARD). 

Birth and Education. 275 

On the “Commercial,” Toledo, Ohio. 275 

Local Editor of the “ Plain Dealer ”. 275 

Successful Lecturer in England..-.. 276 

Death at Southampton. 276 

His Works. 276 

‘Artemus Ward Visits the Shakers ’. 276 

‘At the Tomb of Shakespeare ’. 277 

HENRY W. SHAW (JOSH BILLINGS). 

Birth and Education. 278 

His Early Life of Adventure. 278 

Entered the Lecture Field. 278 

Contributor to “The New York Weekly” . 278 

His Published Books.... 278 

‘ Manifest Destiny ’. 279 

‘ Letters to Farmers ’. 280 

SAMUEL L. CLEMENS (MARK TWAIN). 

A World-wide Reputation. 281 

Birth, Boyhood and Education. 281 

His Pilot Life. 281 

Editor of the Virginia City “ Enterprise 281 

Journalist and Gold Digger. 281 

A Trip to Hawaii. 281 

Innocents Abroad. 281 

Some of his Other Works. 282 

A Lecturing Trip Around the World. 282 

1 Jim Smiley’s Frog ’. 282 


PACK 

‘ Uncle DanTs Apparition and Prayer ’.... 283 


‘ The Babies ’. 285 

MARIETTA HOLLEY (JOSIAH ALLEN’S 
WIFE). 

A Writer at an Early Age.■> 286 

Birth and Ancestors. 286 

Rise and Increase of her Fame. 286 

Some of her Prominent Works. 286 

Characteristics of her Books. 287 

‘ Josiah Allen’s Wife Calls on the President ’ 287 

CHARLES F. ADAMS (YAWCOB STRAUSS). 

A Not-Soon-to-be-Forgotten Author. 289 

Birth, Education and Early Life. 289 

Service in Many Hard-fought Battles. 289 

Prominent Business Man. 289 

‘ Der Drummer ’. 290 

‘ Hans and Fritz ’. 290 

‘Yawcob Strauss’. 290 

‘ Mine Moder-in-Law ’. 291 

‘ Yawcob’s Dribulations ’. 291 

‘ The Puzzled Dutchman ’. 292 

‘ Der Oak and Der Vine ’. 292 

EDGAR WILSON NYE (BILL NYE). 

A Man of Genuine Wit. 294 

Birth and Early Surroundings. 294 

Studied Law, Admitted to the Bar. 294 

Organized the Nye Trust. 294 

Famous Letters from Buck’s Shoals, N. C.. 294 

‘History of the United States’. 295 

His Death. 295 

‘ The Wild Cow ’. 295 

‘ Mr. Whisk’s True Love ’. 295 

‘ The Discovery of New York ’. 296 

JOEL C. HARRIS (UNCLE REMUS). 

“An Accidental Author ”. 298 

Birth and Humble Circumstances. 298 

In the Office of the “ Countryman ”. 298 

Beginning of his Literary Career. 298 

Studied and Practiced Law. 299 

Co-editor of the Atlanta “Constitution ”... 299 

His Works. 299 


‘Mr. Rabbit, Mr. Fox, and Mr. Buzzard’.. 299 

ROBERT J. BURDETTE. 

A Prominent Place Among “Funny Men” 303 


Birth and Early Education. 303 

Fought in the Civil War. 303 


Journalist, Lecturer and Baptist Minister.. 303 













































































CONTENTS. 


21 


PAGE 


Contributor to “ Ladies’ Home Journal ”.. 303 

His Other Works. 303 

1 The Movement Cure for Rheumatism ’.... 304 

LOUISA M. ALCOTT. 

Architect of her Own Fortune. 306 

Her Father’s Misfortunes. 306 

Her Early Writings. 306 

Her Letters in the Government Hospitals.. 307 

Young People’s True Friend. 307 

Her Books. 307 

An Admirer of Emerson. 307 

A Victim of Overwork. 308 

‘ How Jo Made Friends ’. 308 

WILLIAM T. ADAMS (OLIVER OPTIC). 

Writer for the Young. 310 

Birth and Early Life. 310 

Teacher in Public Schools of Boston. 310 

His Editorials and Books. 310 

His Style and Influence. 310 

1 The Sloop that Went to the Bottom ’. 310 

SARAH JANE LIPPINCOTT (GRACE 
GREENWOOD). 

Favorite Writer for Little Children. 312 

Birth and Childhood. 312 

Her Marriage. 312 

Contributions to Journals and Magazines... 312 

Her Numerous Books. 312 

Life Abroad. 312 

‘ The Baby in the Bath-tub ’. 312 

HORATIO ALGER. 

A Wholesome Author for Young People... 315 

His First Book, Great Success. 315 

A New Field. 315 

Birth, Education and Early Life. 315 

Residence in New York. 315 

Some of his Most Prominent Books. 316 

1 How Dick Began the Day ’. 316 

EDWARD ELLIS. 

Birth and Early Life. 318 

His Historical Text-Books. 318 

H is Contributions to Children’s Papers.... 318 
‘The Signal Fire ’. 318 

MARTHA FINLEY. 

Birth, Ancestry and Early Life. 320 

Struggle Against Adversity. 320 


PAGE 


Great Exertions. 320 

‘ Elsie Series, ’ Great Popularity. 321 

‘ Elsie’s Disappointment ’. 321 

MARY MAPES DODGE. 

Writer of Stories for Children. 324 

Birth and Parentage. 324 

Contributor to “ Hearth and Home ”. 324 

Success of her Works. 324 

Editor of “ St. Nicholas Magazine ”. 324 

Her Home in New York. 324 

‘ Too Much of a Good Thing ’. 325 

HORACE GREELEY. 

Birth and Early Taste for Literature. 327 

Tries his Fortune in New York. 327 

The “LogCabin” andtheN.Y. “Tribune” 327 

Elected to Congress. 328 

His Works. 329 

Nominated for Presidency. 329 

His Last Resting-place. 329 

‘A Debtor’s Slavery’. 329 

‘The Press’. 331 

CHARLES A. DANA. 

One of Our Foremost Men. 332 

His Education and College Career. 332 

Joining the “Brook Farm” Men. 332 

His First Journalistic Experience. 333 

On the New York ‘‘ Tribune ”. 333 

Difference Between Mr. Greeley and Mr. Dana 333 

Assistant Secretary of War. 333 

Manager of the New York “ Sun ”. 333 

‘ Roscoe Conkling ’. 334 

LYMAN ABBOTT. 

Ancestors, Birth and Education. 337 

Ordained a Minister. 337 

Work as a Journalist. 337 

Successor of Henry Ward Beecher. 338 

Successful Pulpit Speaker. 338 

‘ The Jesuits ’. 338 

‘ The Destruction of the Cities of the Plain ’ 339 

HENRY W. WATTERSON. 

Influential Modern Journalist. 340 

Editor of the “ Republican Banner ”. 340 

Service in the Confederate Army. 340 

The “Courier-Journal,” Louisville, Ky- 340 

Prominent Part in Politics. 340 

‘ The New South ’. 340 










































































CONTENTS. 


2 2 


PAGE 

MURAT HALSTEAD. 

One of the Greatest Living Journalists. 342 

Editor of “The Commercial,” Cincinnati, 

Ohio. 342 

Correspondent During the Franco-Prussian 

War, 1870. 343 

In Washington and New York. 343 

Home and Family Life. 344 

‘The Young Man at the Door’. 344 


JUI 


WHITELAW REID. 

Birth and Early Training. 346 

War Correspondent to the “Cincinnati Ga¬ 
zette” . 

Editorial Writer Upon N. Y. “ Tribune 

His Most Prominent Works. 

H is Palatial Home and Family Life. 

‘ Pictures of a Louisiana Plantation ’. 

ALBERT SHAW. 

Birth, Education and Personal Character¬ 
istics . 350 


PAGE 


On the Minneapolis Daily “Tribune ”. 351 

Extensive Studies Abroad. 351 

Editor of the “ Review of Reviews ”. 351 

Great Success. 351 


‘ Recent Development of the West ’. 351 

MAN HAWTHORNE. 

His Imaginative Power, Vivid Statement.. 353 


College Life and Early Training. 353 

Some of his Most Prominent Works. 353 

Expedition to India. 353 

‘ The Wayside and the War .... . 354 

‘ First Months in England ’.•. 354 

‘ The Horrors of the Plague in India ’. 355 

1HARD HARDING DAVIS. 

Marvelous Skill in Seeing the World. 356 

A Clever Newspaper Reporter. 356 

Interesting Career as a Journalist. 356 

The Book that Made Him Famous. 356 

Some of his Other Works. 357 

4 The Greek Defence of Velestino ’. 357 


346 j 

346 j 

347 
347 
347 


MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


4 Home, Sweet Home ’. 391 

4 The Star-Spangled Banner ’. 391 

4 The American Flag ’. 392 

4 Blind Man and the Elephant ’. 393 

4 Hail, Columbia ! ’. 393 

4 Betty and the Bear ’. 394 

4 Visit of St. Nicholas ’. 395 

4 Woodman, Spare that Tree ’. 397 

4 Sanctity of Treaties, 1796 . 397 

4 The Bloom was on the Alder and the Tassel on 

the Corn ’. 397 

4 The Declaration of Independence ! . 398 

4 Washington's Address to his Soldiers, 1776 ’.. 399 

4 The General Government and the States ’. 399 

4 What Saved the Union ’. 400 

4 The Birthday of Washington ’. 400 

4 Oh ! Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud ?’ 401 

4 Columbus in Chains ’. 402 

4 The Bivouac of the Dead ’. 402 


4 Address at the Dedication of Gettysburg Ceme¬ 


tery ’. 403 

‘Memory’. 403 

4 All Quiet Along the Potomac’. 404 

4 A Life on the Ocean Wave ’. 404 

4 The Blue and the Gray ’. 405 

4 Roll-call ’. 405 

4 Theology in the Quarters’. 406 

4 Ruin Wrought by Rum '. 406 

4 To a Skeleton '. 407 

4 Pledge with Wine '. 407 

4 Spartacus to the Gladiators at Capua ’. 409 

‘The Crabbed Man’. 410 

4 Putting Up o’ the Stove ’. 411 

4 The Poor Indian ! ’. 413 

4 Jenkins Goes to a Picnic’. 413 

4 Sewing on a Button '. 414 

4 Casey at the Bat ’. 414 

‘The Magical Isle’. 415 















































































WASHINGTON IEVING. 

THE FIRST AMERICAN AUTHOR OF RENOWN. 
“The Cervantes of the New World.” 


E first American who openly adopted literature as a calling and suc¬ 
cessfully relied upon his pen for support was Washington Irving, 
and the abiding popularity of this author is the best guarantee of 
his permanent place in the world of letters. Since 1802, when 
Irving begun to write, empires have arisen and passed away; new 
arts have been invented and adopted, and have pushed the old out 
of use; the household economy of mankind has undergone a revolution; science has 
learned a new dialect and forgotten the old; but the words of this charming writer 
are still as bright and even more read by men and women to-day than when they 
came fresh from his pen and their brilliant author was not only the literary lion of 
America, but was a shining light in the circles of the old World. The pages of 
Irving are a striking illustration of the fact that the language of the heart never be¬ 
comes obsolete, that Truth, and Good, and Beauty, the offspring of God, are not sub¬ 
ject to the changes which beset the empire of man, and we feel sure that Washing¬ 
ton Irving, whose works were the delight of our grandparents and parents, and are 
now contributing to our own happiness, will also be read with the same eager pleas¬ 
ure by those who come after us. 

It was on the 3rd of April, 1783, when the British were in possession of New 
York City and George Washington was exerting his forces to drive them away, that 
young Irving was born. Like Benjamin Franklin, he was the youngest of many 
sons. His father was a Scotchman and his mother an Englishwoman, who emigrated 
to America soon after their marriage and settled in New York about the year 1770. 
The Irvings were staunch patriots and did what they could to relieve the sufferings 
of American prisoners while the British held the city, and their son was not chris¬ 
tened until the English evacuated the town and George Washington came in and 
took possession. In her exultation over this event Mrs Irving exclaimed: “Wash¬ 
ington’s work is ended and this child shall be named after him.” Six years later, 
in 1789, George Washington took the oath of office as the first President of the 
United States, in New York, which was then the capital of the country. Shortly 
after this the Scotch servant girl with little Irving in charge, seeing the President 
on the street called out: “ Please, your honor, here’s a bairn was named after you.” 
Washington bade her bring the boy to him, and placing his hands on his head 

gave him his blessing. 



23 






































24 


WASHINGTON IKVING. 

As a boy Irving was playful rather than studious. His delicate health prevented 
his entering college, and the educational training which he received was at sundry 
small schools, and this ceased at the age of sixteen, at which time he began to 
study law. Irving’s opportunity came in 1802, when his brother, Dr. Peter 
Irving, established a daily paper, to which Washington, then only nineteen, con- 
tributed a series of essays under the signature of “Jonathan Oldstyle.” I hey were 
written in a humorous vein and met an instant success, being quoted and copied as 
far and wide as the sayings of Benjamin Franklin’s “Poor Bicliard” had been fifty 
years before. 

In 1804 Irving’s failing health compelled him to abandon his legal studies and he 
went abroad, spending two years in European travel, and gathering a stock of 
material for his future writings. In 1806 he returned to New Y ork, took up again 



SUNNYSIDE, THE HOME OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 


the study of law and was admitted to the bar, but never practised the profession. 
The next year, with his brother and James K. Paulding, he started the “Salma¬ 
gundi; or, Whim-Whams and Opinions of Lancelot Langstaff, Esq.,” which was 
published fortnightly and ran through twenty numbers. This humorous magazine, 
intended by its authors only to “hit off” the gossip of that day, has now become an 
amusing history of society events a century ago, and is still widely read. The next 
two years were occupied in writing his “Knickerbocker’s History of New York, 9 ’ 
which was published in December, 1809. This was to have been the joint work of 
Washington Irving and his brother, Peter, but the latter was called away to Europe, 
and Washington did it alone. To introduce this book, Irving, with genuine Yankee 
shrewdness, advertised in the newspapers some months in advance of its publication 
for an old gentleman by the name of Knickerbocker, who had suddenly disap¬ 
peared, leaving behind him the manuscript of a book and his board bill unpaid. 
It was finally Announced that his landlord had decided to publish the book in 
the hope of realizing enough profit to satisfy his claim for board against the author. 















WASHINGTON IRVING. 


25 


It proved to be tlie most readable book which had yet appeared in America and was 
received with enthusiasm by the public. Abroad it created almost as great a sensa¬ 
tion. Sir Walter Scott read it aloud to his family, and it first revealed to the critics 
ol the Old World that America was to have a literature of its own. This book 
quickly brought its author both reputation and money, and with bright hopes he 
entered the business firm of his brother as a silent partner. 

During the War ot 1812 Irving was editorially connected with the “Analectic 
Magazine” in Philadelphia, for which he wrote a number of articles. He was 
stanchly patriotic throughout the war, though he deplored its existence. In 1815, 
after peace was proclaimed, he made a second voyage across the Atlantic, intending 
to remain only a short while, but the failure of his brother’s firm blasted his busi¬ 
ness hopes and necessitated his return to literature. He, therefore, remained abroad 
for seventeen years, and it was in the Old Country that he wrote his famous “Sketch 
Book,” published in parts in New York in 1819, and in book form in London in 
1820, the author receiving for the copyright four hundred pounds (nearly $2,000). 
In 1822 he published “Bracebridge Hall, or, The Humorist;” and in 1824 the “Tales 
of the Traveler.” From 1826 to 1829 Irving spent much time in Spain, where he 
gathered material for the “Life of Christopher Columbus” (1828); “Chronicles of 
the Conquest of Granada,” and “The Alhambra, or, The New Sketch Book,” which 
appeared in 1832. 

During the last two years of Irving’s stay abroad he was Secretary of the United 
States Legation at London, and on his return to America in 1832 was received with 
great public honor. His books now brought him an adequate income, and he built 
for himself a handsome villa at Irvington, New York—which he named “Sunny- 
side”—where he continued to reside until his death, with the exception of four 
years (1842-46), during which time he represented the United States at the Court 
of Madrid. While residing at Sunnyside he wrote the “Tours of the Prairies” 
(1835); “Astoria” (1836); “Adventures of Captain Bonneville” (1837). After 
his return from the Court of Spain he edited a new edition of his complete works, 
issued in 1850. He also published in 1849 and 1850 “Oliver Goldsmith: a Bio¬ 
graphy,” and “Mahomet and His Successors.” From 1850 to 1859 he published 
only two books, namely, “Wolfret’s Roost and Other Papers” and the “Life of 
George Washington;” the latter issued just before his death, which occurred at 
Sunnyside, November 28, 1859. His nephew, P. H. Irving, afterwards prepared 
the “Life and Letters of Washington Irving” (1863), and also edited and published 
his “Spanish Papers and Other Miscellanies” (1866.) 

That Irving never married may be attributed to the fact that his fiance, Miss 
Matilda Hoffman, a charming and beautiful girl, to whom he was devotedly attached, 
died suddenly soon after they were engaged. Irving, then twenty-six, bore the 
blow like a man, but he carried the scar through life. 

The fame of Irving becomes the more resplendent when we remember that 
he was the first great pioneer in American letters. Franklin was the only man 
of any note who had preceded him, and his writings were confined to a much 
smaller scope. It was while Byron and Scott were leaders of English letters 
that Irving, without the advantage of a college education, went to England 
and met and associated with the greatest of English authors, issued several 
IS 




26 


WASHINGTON IRNING 


of his books and made good his own title to an honorable position in literature 
among them, not only leaving his impress upon English society but he created an 
illustrious following among her authors that any man should be proud of; for it is 
from Irving’s “Sketch Book” that the revival of Christmas feasts was inaugurated, 
which Dickens afterwards took up and pursued to further lengths, making Irving 
his model in more ways than is generally supposed. Sir Walter Scott and Thack¬ 
eray were his friends and admirers. The latter calls Irving the “first ambassador 
whom the new world of letters sent to the old.” At home Irving’s influence was 
even greater. His tales like “Rip Van Winkle” and its fellows became the first 
fruits of an abundant harvest, rich in local flavor, which later American story-tellers 
like Hawthorne, Poe, Bret Harte and Cable, all in their own way, following in his 
footsteps, have gathered after him. 

The genius of Irving was not of that stalwart, rugged character which conquered 
by admiration. It rather won its way softly and by the aid of genial sentiment 
human sympathy and pungent humor. His heart was quick to catch the sentiment, 
and his imagination as quick to follow the thread of an incident to its most charm¬ 
ing conclusion. He it was who peopled the green nooks of “Sleepy Hollow” and 
the rocky crags of the Catskills, describing landscape and character with a charm 
which no later American writer has surpassed; and it was his delicate subtlety and 
keen insight which called into being in his “Knickerbocker’s History” a civiliza¬ 
tion, giving to the legend the substance of truth, and presenting a fiction so that it 
passed for a fact. This is a feat which very few authors have accomplished. 

That Irving might have been a successful historian is evinced by his “Life of 
Columbus” and “Life of Washington,” in which his exhaustive inquiry into details 
and his treatment of the same leave nothing new in the lives of these great men to 
be told; but it is on his descriptive essays, such as we find in his “Sketch Book,” 
“The Alhambra” and “Knickerbocker’s History,” that his title to enduring fame 
most securely rests. 

The poet, Lowell, in his “Fable for Critics,” thus happily characterizes Washing- 




ton Irving: 


“ What! Irving? thrice welcome warm heart and fine brain, 
You bring back the happiest spirit from Spain, 

And the gravest sweet humor, that ever were there 
Since Cervantes met death in his gentle despair; 

Nay, don’t be embarrassed, nor look so beseeching, 

I shan’t run directly against my own preaching, 

And having just laughed at their Raphaels and Dantes, 

Go to setting you up beside matchless Cervantes; 

But allow me to speak what I honestly feel, 

To a true poet-heart, add the fun of Dick Steele, 

Throw in all of Addison, minus the chill, 

With the whole of that partnership’s stock and good-will, 

Mix well, and while stirring, hum o’er, as a spell, 

The ‘ fine old English Gentleman,’ simmer it well, 

Sweeten just to your own private liking, then strain, 

That only the finest and clearest remain. 

Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives 
From the warm lazy sun loitering down through green leaves. 
And you’ll find a choice nature not wholly deserving 
A name either English or Yankee—just Irving.” 





WASHINGTON IRVING. 


*7 


THE ORGAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 


FROM THE SKETCH BOOK. 


HE sound of casual footsteps had ceased 
from the abbey. I could only hear, now 
and then, the distant voice of the priest 
repeating the evening service, and the faint responses 
of the choir; these paused for a time, and all was 
hushed. The stillness, the desertion and obscurity 
that were gradually prevailing around, gave a deeper 
and more solemn interest to the place: 

For in the silent grave no conversation, 

No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 

No careful father’s counsel—nothing’s heard, 

For nothing is, but all oblivion, 

Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ 
burst upon the ear, falling with double and redoubled 
intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows of 
sound. How well do their volume and grandeur ac¬ 
cord with this mighty building! With what pomp 
do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe 
their awful harmony through these caves of death, 
and make the silent sepulchre vocal! And now they 



rise in triumph and acclamation, heaving higher and 
higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on 
sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices of 
the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody; 
they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, and seem 
to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of 
heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling 
thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it 
forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences! 
What solemn sweeping concords! It grows more 
and more dense and powerful—it fills the vast pile, 
and seems to jar the very walls—the ear is stunned— 
the senses are overwhelmed. And new it is winding 
up in full jubilee—it is rising from the earth to 
heaven—The very soul seems rapt away and floated 
upwards on this swelling tide of harmony ! 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie 
which a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire: 
the shadows of evening were gradually thickening 
round me ; the monuments began to cast deeper and 
deeper gloom ; and the distant clock again gave token 
of the slowly waning day. 




BALTUS VAN TASSEL’S FARM. 


CHABOD CRANE had a soft and foolish 
heart toward the sex ; and it is not to be 
wondered at, that so tempting a morsel 
soon found favor in his eyes; more especially after 
he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old 
Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, 
contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is 
true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the 
boundaries of his own farm ; but within these every¬ 
thing was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He 
was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it; 
and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, 
rather than the style in which he lived. His strong¬ 
hold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in 
one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which 
the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great 
elm-tree spread its branches over it, at the foot of 
which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest 



water, in a little well formed of a barrel; and then 
stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neigh¬ 
boring brook, that bubbled along among alders and 
dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast 
barn, that might have served for a church ; every 
window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth 
with the treasures of the farm ; the flail was busily 
resounding within it from morning to night; swallows 
and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves ; 
and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, 
as if watching the weather, some with their heads 
under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and 
others swelling and cooing, and bowing about their 
dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. 
Sleek, unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose 
and abundance of their pens ; whence sallied forth, 
now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff 
the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were 


















28 


WASHINGTON IRVING. 


riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of 
ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through 
the farmyard, and guinea fowls fretting about it, like 
ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discon¬ 
tented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant 
cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine 
gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, and crowing 
in the pride and gladness of his heart—sometimes 
tearing up the earth with his feet, and then gener¬ 
ously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and 
children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had 
discovered. 

The pedagogue’s mouth watered, as he looked upon 
this sumptuous promise of winter fare. In his de¬ 
vouring mind’s eye, he pictured to himself every 
roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his 
belly and an apple in his mouth ; the pigeons were 
snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in 
with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in 
their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, 
like snug married couples, with a decent competency 
of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the 
future sleek side of bacon and juicy relishing ham ; 
not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with 


its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a neck¬ 
lace of savory sausages; and even bright chanticleer 
himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side-dish, with 
uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his 
chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as 
he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow- 
lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, 
and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened w 7 ith 
ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of 
Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel, who 
was to inherit these domains, and his imagination ex¬ 
panded with the idea, how they might be readily 
turned into cash, and the money invested in immense 
tracts of wild land and shingle palaces in the wilder¬ 
ness. 

Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, 
and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with 
a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a 
wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and 
kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld himself be¬ 
striding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, set¬ 
ting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows 
where. 


COLUMBUS AT BARCELONA. 

(FROM “ LIFE OF COLUMBUS.”) 


HE letter of Columbus to the Spanish mon- 
archs had produced the greatest sensation 
at court. The event he announced was 
considered the most extraordinary of their prosperous 
reign, and, following so close upon the conquest of 
Granada, was pronounced a signal mark of divine 
favor for that triumph achieved in the cause of the 
true faith. The sovereigns themselves were for a time 
dazzled by this sudden and easy acquisition of a new 
empire, of indefinite extent and apparently boundless 
wealth. 

vp vp *1* vL» 

'T* /p 

About the middle of April Columbus arrived at 
Barcelona, where every preparation had been made to 
give him a solemn and magnificent reception. The 
beauty and serenity of the weather in that genial sea¬ 
son and favored climate contributed to give splendor 
to this memorable ceremony. As he drew near the 


place, many of the more youthful courtiers and 
hidalgos, together with a vast concourse of the pop¬ 
ulace, came forth to meet and welcome him. His 
entrance into this noble city has been compared to one 
of those triumphs which the Romans were accustomed 
to decree to conquerors.* First were paraded the 
Indians, painted according to their savage fashion, and 
decorated with their national ornaments of gold ; after 
these were borne various kinds of live parrots, to¬ 
gether with stuffed birds and animals of unknown 
species, and rare plants supposed to be of precious 
qualities; while great care was taken to make a con¬ 
spicuous display of Indian coronets, bracelets, and other 
decorations of gold, which might give an idea of the 
wealth of the newly discovered regions. After this 
followed Columbus on horseback, surrounded by a 
brilliant cavalcade of Spanish chivalry. The streets 
were almost impassable from the countless multitude j 








WASHINGTON IKYING. 


29 


the windows and balconies were crowded with the fair; 

c 

the very roofs were covered with spectators. It 
seemed as if the public eye could not be sated with 
gazing on these trophies of an unknown world, or on 
the remarkable man by whom it had been discovered. 
There was a sublimity in this event that mingled a 
solemn feeling with the public joy. It was looked 
upon as a vast and signal dispensation of Providence 
in reward for the piety of the monarchs; and the 
majestic and venerable appearance of the discoverer, 
so different from the youth and buoyancy generally 
expected from roving enterprise, seemed in harmony 
with the grandeur and dignity of his achievement. 

To receive him with suitable pomp and distinction, 
the sovereigns had ordered their throne to be placed 
in public, under a rich canopy of brocade of gold, in 
a vast and splendid saloon. Here the king and queen 
awaited his arrival, seated in state, with the Prince 
Juan beside them, and attended by the dignitaries of 
their court, and the principal nobility of Castile^ 
Valencia, Catalonia, and Aragon, all impatient to be¬ 
hold the man who had conferred so incalculable a 
benefit upon the nation. At length Columbus en¬ 
tered the hall, surrounded by a brilliant crowd of 
cavaliers, among whom, says Las Casas, he was con¬ 
spicuous for his stately and commanding person, 
which, with his countenance rendered venerable by 
his gray hairs, gave him the august appearance of a 
senator of Rome. A modest smile lighted up his 
features, showing that he enjoyed the state and glory 
in which he came, and certainly nothing could be 
more deeply moving to a mind inflamed by noble am¬ 
bition, and conscious of having greatly deserved, than 
these testimonials of the admiration and gratitude of 
a nation or rather of a world. As Columbus ap¬ 
proached, the sovereigns rose, as if receiving a person 


of the highest rank. Bending his knees, he offered 
to kiss their hands ; but there was some hesitation on 
their part to permit this act of homage. Raising him 
in the most gracious manner, they ordered him to seat 
himself in their presence; a rare honor in this proud 
and punctilious court. 

At their request he now gave an account of the 
most striking events of his voyage, and a description 
of the islands discovered. He displayed specimens of 
unknown birds and other animals; of rare plants of 
medicinal and aromatic virtues ; of native gold in dust, 
in crude masses, or labored into barbaric ornaments; 
and, above all, the natives of these countries, who were 
objects of intense and inexhaustible interest. All these 
he pronounced mere harbingers of greater discoveries 
yet to be made, which would add realms of incalcu¬ 
lable wealth to the dominions of their majesties, and 
whole nations of proselytes to the true faith. 

When he had finished, the sovereigns sank on their 
knees, and, raising their clasped hands to heaven, 
their eyes filled with tears of joy and gratitude, poured 
forth thanks and praises to God for so great a provi¬ 
dence ; all present followed their example; a deep 
and solemn enthusiasm pervaded that splendid assem¬ 
bly, and prevented all common acclamations of tri¬ 
umph. The anthem Te Deurn laudamus , chanted by 
the choir of the royal chapel, with the accompaniment 
of instruments, rose in full body of sacred harmony, 
bearing up as it were the feelings and thoughts of the 
auditors to heaven, “ so that,” says the venerable Las 
Casas, “ it seemed as if in that hour they communi¬ 
cated with celestial delights.” Such was the solemn 
and pious manner in which the brilliant court of Spain 
celebrated this sublime event; offering up a grateful 
tribute of melody and praise, and giving glory to God 
for the discovery of another world. 


♦ 0 * 


THE GALLOPING HESSIAN. 


IIE revel now gradually broke up. The old 
farmers gathered together their families in 
their wagons, and were heard for some time 
rattling; alone; the hollow roads and over the distant hills. 
Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their 
favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter, ming¬ 
ling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent 



woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until they grad¬ 
ually died away—and the late scene of noise and frolic 
was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered be¬ 
hind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have 
a tete-a-tete with the heiress, fully convinced that he 
was now on the high road to success. What passed 
at this interview I will not pretend to say, for, in fact. 













3° 


WASHINGTON IRVING. 


I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must 
have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after 
no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and 
chapfallen. Oh these women ! these women! Could 
that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish 
tricks? Was her encouragement of the poor peda¬ 
gogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his 
rival? Heaven only knows, not I! Let it suffice to 
say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had 
been sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fair lady’s 
heart. Without looking to the right or left to 
notice the scene of rural wealth on which he had so 
often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and 
with several hearty cuff’s and kicks, roused his steed 
most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in 
which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains 
of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and 
clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that Icha¬ 
bod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travel 
homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which 
rise above Tarrytown, and which he had traversed 
so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal 
as himself. Far below him the Tappan Zee spread 
its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and 
there the tall mast of a sloop riding quietly at anchor 
under the land. In the dead hush of midnight he 
could even hear the barking of the watch-dog from 
the opposite shore of the Hudson ; but it was so vague 
and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from 
this faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, 
the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awak¬ 
ened, would sound far, far off, from some farmhouse 
away among the hills—but it was like a dreaming 
sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, 
but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or 
perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog, from a 
neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and 
turning suddenly in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had 
heard in the afternoon now came crowding upon his 
recollection. The night grew darker and darker, the 
stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving 
clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had 
never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, 
approaching the very place where many of the scenes 
of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of 


the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered 
like a giant above all the other trees of the neighbor¬ 
hood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were 
gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for 
ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth and 
rising again into the air. It was connected with the 
tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, who had 
been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally 
known by the name of Major Andre’s tree. The 
common people regarded it with a mixture of respect 
and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate 
of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales 
of strange sights and doleful lamentations told con¬ 
cerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began 
to whistle; he thought his whistle was answered ; it 
was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry 
branches. As he approached a little nearer, he 
thought he saw something white hanging in the 
midst of the tree—he paused and ceased whistling; 
but, on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a 
place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, 
and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a 
groan—his teeth chattered, and his knees smote 
against the saddle; it was but the rubbing of one 
huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about 
by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but 
new perils lay before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small 
brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and 
thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley’s 
Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served 
for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the 
road where the brook entered the wood, a group of 
oaks and chestnuts, matted thick wdtli wild grape¬ 
vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this 
bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical 
spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and 
under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were 
the sturdy yoemen concealed who surprised him. 
This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, 
and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has 
to pass it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream, his heart began to 
thump ; he summoned up, however, all his resolution, 
gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and 
attempted to dash briskly across the bridge: but in- 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 


31 


stead of starting forward, the perverse old animal 
made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against 
the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the 
delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked 
lustily with the contrary foot; it was all in vain ; his 
steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to 
the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles 
and alder-bushes. The schoolmaster now ( bestowed 
both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old 
Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and snort¬ 
ing, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a 
suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling 
over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp 
by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of 
Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the 
margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, mis¬ 
shapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but 
seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic 
monster ready to spring upon the traveler. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his 
head with terror. What was to be done ? To turn 
and fly was now too late ; and, besides, what chance 
was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, 
which could ride upon the wings of the wind ? 
Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he 
demanded in stammering accents—“ Who are you ?” 
He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a 
still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. 
Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible 
Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with 
involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then 
the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and 
with a scramble and a bound stood at once in the 
middle of the road. Though the night was dark 
and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now 
in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a 
horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a 
black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of 
molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side 
of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old 
Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and 
waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange mid¬ 
night companion, and bethought himself of the 
adventure of Brom Bones with the galloping 
Hessian, now quickened his steed in hopes of leaving 
him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his 


horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell 
into a walk, thinking to lag behind—the other did 
the same. His heart began to sink within him ; he 
endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched 
tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could 
not utter a stave. There was something in the 
moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious com¬ 
panion that was mysterious and appalling. It was 
soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising 
ground, which brought the figure of his fellow- 
traveler in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, 
and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on 
perceiving that he was headless !—but his horror was 
still more increased on observing that the head, which 
should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before 
him on the pommel of the saddle: his terror rose to 
desperation ; he rained a shower of kicks and blows 
upon Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden movement to 
give his companion the slip—but the spectre started 
full jump with him. Away then they dashed, through 
thick and thin ; stones flying and sparks flashing at 
every bound. Ichabod’s flimsy garments fluttered in 
the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over 
his horse’s head, in the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to 
Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed pos¬ 
sessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made 
an opposite turn, and plunged headlong down the hill 
to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow, 
shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where 
it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story, and just 
beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the 
whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his un¬ 
skilful rider an apparent advantage in the chase; but 
just as he had got half-way through the hollow the 
girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping 
from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and 
endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain ; and he had 
just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder 
round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, 
and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. 
For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper’s 
wrath passed across his mind—for it was his Sun¬ 
day saddle; but this was no time for petty fears; 
the goblin was hard on his haunches ; and (unskilful 
rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain 







WASHINGTON IRVING. 


32 

his seat; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes 
on the other, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge 
of his horses backbone, with a violence that he verily 
feared would cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the 
hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The 
wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of 
the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He 
saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the 
trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom 
Bones’ ghostly competitor had disappeared. “ If I 
can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “ I am 
safe.” Just then he heard the black steed panting 
and blowing close behind him ; he even fancied that 
he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in 
the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; 
he thundered over the resounding planks ; he gained 
the opposite side ; and now Ichabod cast a look be¬ 
hind to see if his pursuer should vanish, ac¬ 
cording to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. 
Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups and 
in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod 
endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too 
.ate. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous 
crash—he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and 
Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider 
passed by like a whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without 
his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly 
cropping the grass at his master’s gate. Ichabod did 
not make his appearance at breakfast—dinner-hour 
came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the 
schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the 
brook ; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper 
now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of 
poor Ichabod and his saddle. An inquiry was set on 
foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon 
his traces. In one part of the road leading to the 
church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; 
the tracks of horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the road, 
and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the 
bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part 


of the brook, where the water ran deep and black 
was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and 
close beside it a shattered pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the 
schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans Van 
Ripper, as executor of his estate, examined the 
bundle, which contained all his worldly effects. They 
consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the 
neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings ; an old 
pair of corduroy smallclothes; a rusty razor; a book 
of psalm tunes, full of dog’s ears; and a broken 
pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the 
schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, ex¬ 
cepting Cotton Mather’s History of Witchcraft, a 
New England Almanac, and a book of dreams and 
fortune-telling : in which last was a sheet of foolscap 
much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts 
to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of 
Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl 
were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van 
Ripper ; who from that time forward determined to 
send his children no more to school, observing that 
he never knew any good come of this same reading 
and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster pos¬ 
sessed, and he had received his quarter’s pay but a 
day or two before, he must have had about his person 
at the time of his disappearance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at 
the church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers 
and gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the 
bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin 
had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, 
and a whole budget of others, were called to mind; 
and when they had diligently considered them all, 
and compared them with the symptoms of the present 
case, they shook their heads, and came to the con¬ 
clusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the 
galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in 
nobody’s debt, nobody troubled his head any more 
about him, the school was removed to a different part 
of the Hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his 
stead. 












WILLIAM CULLEN BEY ANT. 


THE POET OF NATURE. 


T is said that “genius always manifests itself before its possessor 
reaches manhood;” Perhaps in no case is this more true than in 
that of the poet, and William Cullen Bryant was no exception to 
the general rule. The poetical fancy was early displayed in him. 
He began to write verses at nine, and at ten composed a little 
poem to be spoken at a public school, which was published in a 
1 newspaper. At fourteen a collection of his poems was published in 12 mo. fora 
i by E. G. House of Boston. Strange to say the longest one of these, entitled 
)| “The Embargo” was political in its character setting forth his reflections on the 
t Anti-Jeffersonian Federalism prevalent in New England at that time. But it 
i is said that never after that effort did the poet employ his muse upon the politics 
of the day, though the general topics of liberty and independence have given occa* 
i sion to some of his finest efforts. Bryant was a great lover of nature. In the 
i Juvenile Collection above referred to were published an “Ode to Connecticut 
Biver” and also the lines entitled “ Drought” which show the characteristic ob- 
t i servation as well as the style in which his youthful muse found expression. It 
3 was written July, 1807, when the author was thirteen years of age, and will be found 
3 among the succeeding selections. 

1 “ Thanatopsis,” one of his most popular poems, (though he himself marked it 

low) was written when the poet was but little more than eighteen years of age. This 
i production is called the beginning of American poetry. 

! William Cullen Bryant was born at Cummington, Hampshire Co., Mass., 

I November 3rd, 1794. His father was a physician, and a man of literary culture 
' who encouraged his son’s early ability, and taught him the value of correctness and 
? compression, and enabled him to distinguish between true poetic enthusiasm and the 

I I bombast into which young poets are apt to fall. The feeling and reverence with 
3 which Bryant cherished the memory of his father whose life was 

t 



“ Marked with some act of goodness every day,” 

is touchingly alluded to in several of his poems and directly spoken of whh pathetic 
eloquence in the “Hymn to Death” written in 1825: 


Alas! I little thought that the stern power 
Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus 


3 P H 


(33) 


























34 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


Before the strain was ended. It must cease— 

For he is in his grave who taught my youth 
The art of verse, and in the bud of life 
Offered me to the Muses. Oh, cut off 
Untimely ! when thy reason in its strength, 

Ripened by years of toil and studious search 
And watch of Nature’s silent lessons, taught 
Thy hand to practise best the lenient art 
To which thou gavest thy laborious days, 

And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth 
Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes, 

And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill 
Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale 
When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou 
Shalt not, as wont, o’erlook, is all I have 
To offer at thy grave—this—and the hope 
To copy thy example. 


Bryant was educated at Williams College, but left with an honorable discharge 
before graduation to take up the study of law, which he practiced one year at Plain- 
field and nine years at Great Barrington, but in 1825 he abandoned law for litera¬ 
ture, and removed to New York wherein 1826 he began to edit the “ Evening 
Post," which position he continued to occupy from that time until the day of his 
death. William Cullen Bryant and the “ Evening Post" were almost as conspicuous 
and permanent features of the city as the Battery and Trinity Church. 

In 1821 Mr. Bryant married Frances Fairchild, the loveliness of whose charac¬ 
ter is hinted in some of his sweetest productions. The one beginning 


“ 0 fairest of the rural maids,” 

was written some years before their marriage; and “The Future Life," one of the 
noblest and most pathetic of his poems, is addressed to her:— 


“ In meadows fanned by Heaven’s life-breathing wind, 
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere 
And larger movements of the unfettered mind, 

Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here? 


“ Will not thy own meek heart demand me there,— 

That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given? 
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, 

And wilt tb?u never utter it in heaven ? 


Among his best-knewn poems are “A Forest Hymn," “The Death of the 
Flowers," “ Lines to a Waterfowl," and “ The Planting of the Apple-Tree." One 
of the greatest of his w T orks, though not among the most popular, is his translation 
of Homer, which he completed when seventy-seven years of age. 

Bryant had a marvellous memory. His familiarity with the English poets w r as 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


35 


such that when at sea, where he was always too ill to read much, he would beguile 
the time by reciting page after page from favorite authors. However long the 
voyage, he never exhausted his resources. “ I once proposed/’ says a friend, “ to 
send for a copy of a magazine in which a new poem of his was announced to appear. 
‘ You need not send for it/ said he, 4 1 can give it to you.’ ‘Then you have a cop]" 
with you?’ said I. ‘ No/ he replied, ‘ but I can recall it,’ and thereupon proceeded 
immediately to write it out. I congratulated him upon having such a faithful 
memory. ‘ If allowed a little time,’ he replied, ‘ I could recall every line of poetry 
I have ever written.’ ” 

His tenderness of the feelings of others, and his earnest desire always to avoid the 
giving of unnecessary pain, were very marked. “ Soon after I began to do the 
duties of literary editor,” writes an associate, “Mr. Bryant, who was reading a 
review of a little book of wretchedly halting verse, said to me : ‘ I wish you would 
deal very gently with poets, esj)ecially the weaker ones.’ ” 

Bryant was a man of very striking appearance, especially in age. “ It is a fine 
sight,” says one writer, “to see a man full of years, clear in mind, sober in judg¬ 
ment, refined in taste, and handsome in person.I remember once to have 

been at a lecture where Mr. Bryant sat several seats in front of me, and his finely- 
sized head was especially noticeable .... The observer of Bryant’s capacious 
skull and most refined expression of face cannot fail to read therein the history of 
a noble manhood.” 

The grand old veteran of verse died in New Y r ork in 1878 at the age of eighty- 
four, universally known and honored. He was in his sixth year when George 
Washington died, and lived under the administration of twenty presidents and had 
seen his own writings in print for seventy years. During this long life—though editor 
for fifty years of a political daily paper, and continually before the public—he had 
kept his reputation unspotted from the world, as if he had, throughout the decades, 
continually before his mind the admonition of the closing lines of “ Thanatopsis” 
written by himself seventy years before. 







86 


WILLIAM CULLEN BBYANT. 


THANATOPSIS* 

The following production is called the beginning of American poetry. 

That a young man not yet 19 should have produced a poem so lofty in conception, so full ot chaste lan¬ 
guage and delicate and striking imagery, and, above all, so pervaded by a noble and cheerful religious 
philosophy, may well be regarded as one of the most remarkable examples of early maturity in literary 
history. 


him who, in the love of Nature, holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she 
speaks 

A various language ; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;— 

Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature’s teachings, while from all around— 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air— 
Comes a still voice.—Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, 

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourish’d thee, shall claim 

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; 

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, slialt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements, 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone,—nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world,—with kings, 
The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good, 

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
Rock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun,—the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 

The venerable woods,—rivers that move 


In majesty, and the complaining brooks 

That make the meadows green ; and, pour’d round all, 

Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,— 

Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
Of morning, traverse Barca’s desert sands, 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Save its own dasliings,—yet—the dead are there, 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep,—the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest; and what if tliou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glides away, the sons of men— 

The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 

And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man— 
Shall, one by one, be gather’d to thy side, 

By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live that, when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 

Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustain’d and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 





WAITING BY THE GATE. 



ESIDES the massive gateway built up in 
years gone by, 

Upon whose top the clouds in eternal 
shadow lie, 


While streams the evening sunshine on the quiet 
wood and lea, 

I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for 
me. 


*The following copyrighted selections from Win. Cullen Bryant are inserted by permission of D. Appleton & Co., the pub¬ 
lishers of his works. 1 














WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


37 


The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze’s flight, 

A soft soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night; 

I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant 
more, 

And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of 
day is o’er. 

Behold the portals open and o’er the threshold, now, 

There steps a wearied one with pale and furrowed 
brow; 

His count of years is full, his alloted task is wrought; 

He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not. 

In sadness, then, I ponder how quickly fleets the 
hour 

Of human strength and action, man’s courage and 
his power. 

I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the 
golden day, 

And as I look and listen the sadness wears away. 

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing throws 

A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes; 

A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair, 

Moves wonderfully away from amid the young and 
fair. 

Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly decays! 

Oh, crimson flush of morning, that darkens as we 
gaze! 

Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air 

Scatters a moment’s sweetness and flies we know not 
where. 

I grieve for life’s bright promise, just shown and 
then withdrawn ; 


But still the sun shines round me ; the evening birds 
sing on; 

And I again am soothed, and beside the ancient gate. 

In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and 
wait. 

Once more the gates are opened, an infant group go 
out, 

The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the 
sprightly shout. 

Oh, frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward 
strews 

Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that 
blows ! 

So from every region, so enter side by side, 

The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of 
pride, 

Steps of earth’s greatest, mightiest, between those 
pillars gray, 

And prints of little feet, that mark the dust away. 

And some approach the threshold whose looks are 
blank with fear, 

And some whose temples brighten with joy are draw¬ 
ing near, 

As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious 

eye 

Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die. 

I mark the joy, the terrors; yet these, within my 
heart, 

Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to 
depart; 

And, in the sunshine streaming of quiet wood and lea, 

I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me, 




“ BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.” 



DEEM not they are blest alone 

Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; 
The Power who pities man has shown 
A blessing for the eyes that weep. 


And thou, who, o’er thy friend’s low bier, 
Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, 

Hope that a brighter, happier sphere 
Will give him to thy arms again. 


The light of smiles shall fill again 
The lids that overflow with tears; 
And weary hours of woe and pain 
Are promises of happier years. 


Nor let the good man’s trust depart, 
Though life its common gifts deny,— 
Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, 
And spurned of men, he goes to die. 


There is a day of sunny rest 

For every dark and troubled night; 
And grief may bide an evening guest, 
But joy shall come with early light. 


For God hath marked each sorrowing day, 
And numbered every secret tear, 

And heaven’s long age of bliss shall pay 
For all his children suffer here. 









38 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 



ERE are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled 
pines, 

That stream with gray-green mosses; here 


the ground 


Was never touch’d by spade, and flowers 
spring up 

Unsown, and die ungather’d. It is sweet 

To linger here, among the flitting birds 

And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks and winds 

That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass 

A fragrance from the cedars thickly set 

With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades— 

Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old— 

My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, 

Rack to the earliest days of Liberty. 

0 Freedom ! thou art not, as poets dream, 

A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, 

And wavy tresses gushing from the cap 
With which the Roman master crown’d his slave, 
When he took olf the gyves. A bearded man, 
Arm’d to the teeth, art thou: one mailed hand 
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy brow, 
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarr’d 
With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs 
Are strong and struggling. Power at thee has 
launch’d 

His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; 

They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven. 
Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep, 

And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, 

Have forged thy chain; yet while he deems thee 
bound, 

The links are shiver’d, and the prison walls 
Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth, 

As springs the flame above a burning pile, 

And shoutest to the nations, who return 
Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. 

Thy birth-right was not given by human hands: 


Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, 
While yet our race was few, thou sat’st with him, 

To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, 

And teach the reed to utter simple airs. 

Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, 

Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, 

His only foes: and thou with him didst draw 
The earliest furrows on the mountain side, 

Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself, 

The enemy, although of reverend look, 

Hoary with many years, and far obey’d, 

Is later born than thou ; and as he meets 
The grave defiance of thine elder eye, 

The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. 

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years 
But he shall fade into a feebler age; 

Feebler, yet subtler; he shall weave his snares, 
And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap 
His wither’d hands, and from their ambush call 
His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send 
Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien, 

To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words 
To charm thy ear; wdiile his sly imps, by stealth 
Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on 
thread, 

That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms 
With chains conceal’d in chaplets. Oh ! not yet 
Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by 
Thy sword, nor yet, 0 Freedom ! close thy lids 
In slumber ; for thine enemy never sleeps. 

And thou must watch and combat, till the day 
Of the new Earth and Heaven. But wouldst thou res: 
Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men, 

These old and friendly solitudes invite 
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees 
Were young upon the unviolated earth, 

And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, 
Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. 



■o 


TO A WATERFOWL. 



HITHER, ’midst falling dew, 

While glow the heavens with the last steps 
of day, 

Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou 
pursue 

Thy solitary way ? 


Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
On the chafed ocean side? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,— 
The desert and illimitable air,— 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 


Vainly the fowler’s eye 

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong 
As, darkly limn’d upon the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek’st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 


All day thy wings have fann’d, 

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 

Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end; 

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, 
Soon, o’er thy shelter’d nest. 
















WILLIAM CULLEN BKYANT. 


39 


Thou’rt gone ; the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallow’d up thy form; yet on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
And shall not soon depart. 


He who, from zone to zone, 

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight. 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. 


ROBERT OF LINCOLN. 



ERRILY swinging on brier and weed, 
Near to the nest of his little dame, 
Over the mountain-side or mead, 

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink; 

Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 

Hidden among the summer flowers. 

Chee, chee, chee. 


Six white eggs on a bed of hay, 
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight 
There as the mother sits all day, 

Robert is singing with all his might: 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Nice good wife, that never goes out, 
Keeping house while I frolic about. 
Chee, chee, chee. 


Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, 

Wearing a bright black wedding coat; 
White are his shoulders and white his crest, 
Hear him call in his merry note: 
Bob-o’-link. bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Look what a nice new coat is mine, 

Sure there was never a bird so fine. 

Chee, chee, chee. 


Soon as the little ones chip the shell 
Six wide mouths are open for food • 
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, 
Gathering seed for the hungry brood 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

This new life is likely to be 
Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
Chee, chee, chee. 


Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife, 

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 
Passing at home a patient life, 

Broods in the grass while her husband sings, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear 
Thieves and robbers, while I am here. 

Chee, chee, chee. 


Robert of Lincoln at length is made 
Sober with work and silent with care; 
OIF is his holiday garment laid, 
Half-forgotten that merry air, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Nobody knows but my mate and I 
Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 
Chee, chee, chee. 


Modest and shy as a nun is she, 

One weak chirp is her only note, 
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 
Pourino; boasts from his little throat; 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Never was I afraid of man ; 

Catch me, cowardly knaves if you can. 
Chee, chee, chee. 


Summer wanes; the children are grown ; 

Fun and frolic no more he knows; 
Robert of Lincoln’s a humdrum crone; 
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 

Chee, chee, chee. 


DROUGHT. 



UNGED amid the limpid waters, 

Or the cooling shade beneath, 

Let me fly the scorching sunbeams, 
And the southwind’s sickly breath ! 


Sirius burns the parching meadows, 
Flames upon the embrowning hill, 
Dries the foliage of the forest, 

And evaporates the rill. 
















40 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


Scarce is seen the lonely floweret, 

Save amid the embowering wood ; 

O’er the prospect dim and dreary, 

Drought presides in sullen mood ! 

Murky vapours hung in ether, 

Wrap in gloom, the sky serene; 

-K>» 


Nature pants distressful—silence 
Reigns o’er all the sultry scene. 

Then amid the limpid waters, 

Or beneath the cooling shade, 

Let me shun the scorching sunbeams 
And the sickly breeze evade. 


THE PAST. 


No poet, perhaps, in the w r orld is so exquisite in rhythm, or classically pure and accurate in language, so 
appropriate in diction, phrase or metaphor as Bryant. 

He dips his pen in words as an inspired painter his pencil in colors. The following poem is a fair specimen 
of his'deep vein in his chosen serious themes. Pathos is pre-eminently his endowment but the tinge of 
melancholy in his treatment is always pleasing. 


HOU unrelenting Past! 

Strong are the barriers round thy dark 
domain, 

And fetters, sure and fast, 

Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 

Par in thy realm withdrawn 
Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, 

And glorious ages gone 
Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. 

Childhood, with all its mirth, 

Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground, 
And, last, Man’s Life on earth, 

Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. 

Thou hast my better years, 

Thou hast my earlier friends—the good—the kind, 
Yielded to thee with tears,— 

The venerable form—the exalted mind. 



Labors of good to man, 

Unpublish’d charity, unbroken faith,— 

Love, that midst grief began, 

And grew with years, and falter’d not in death. 

Full many a mighty name 
Lurks in thy depths, unutter’d, unrevered; 

With thee are silent fame, 

Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear’d. 

Thine for a space are they:— 

Yet slialt thou yield thy treasures up at last; 

Thy gates shall yet give way, 

Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! 

All that of good and fair 
Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, 

Shall then come forth, to wear 
The glory and the beauty of its prime. 


My spirit yearns to bring 
The lost ones back ;—yearns with desire intense, 
And struggles hard to wring 
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. 


They have not perish’d—no ! 

Kind words, remember’d voices once so sweet. 
Smiles, radiant long ago, 

And features, the great soul’s apparent seat, 


In vain :—thy gates deny 
All passage save to those who hence depart; 

Nor to the streaming eye 
Thou giv’st them back,—nor to the broken heart. 


All shall come back; each tie 
Of pure affection shall be knit again; 
Alone shall Evil die, 

And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. 


In thy abysses hide 

Beauty and excellence unknown :—to thee 
Earth’s wonder and her pride 
Are gather’d, as the waters to the sea; 


And then shall I behold 
Him by whose kind paternal side I sprung, 
And her who, still and cold, 

Fills the next grave,—the beautiful and young 


-K>«- 

THE MURDERED TRAVELER. 


J spring, to woods and wastes around, 
Brought bloom and joy again ; 
le murdered traveler’s bones were found, 
Far down a narrow glen. 


The fragrant birch, above him, hung 
Her tassels in the sky ; 

And many a vernal blossom sprung, 
And nodded careless by. 





















WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


41 


The red bird warbied, as he wrought 
His hanging nest o’erhead ; 

And fearless, near the fatal spot, 

Her young the partridge led. 

But there was weeping far away, 

And gentle eyes, for him, 

With watching many an anxious day, 
Were sorrowful and dim. 

They little knew, who loved him so, 
The fearful death he met, 

When shouting o’er the desert snow, 
Unarmed and hard beset; 

Nor how, when round the frosty pole 
The northern dawn was red, 


The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole 
To banquet on the dead; 

Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 
They dressed the hasty bier, 

And marked his grave with nameless stones, 
Unmoistened by a tear. 

But long they looked, and feared, and wept, 
Within his distant home ; 

And dreamed, and started as they slept, 
For joy that he was come. 

Long, long they looked—but never spied 
His welcome step again. 

Nor knew the fearful death he died 
Far down that narrow glen. 


THE BATTLEFIELD. 


Soon after the following poem was written, an English critic, referring to the stanza begining—“Truth 
crushed to earth shall rise again,”—said : “Mr. Bryant has certainly a rare merit for having written a stanza 
which will bear comparison with any four lines as one of the noblest in the English language. The thought 
is complete, the expression perfect. A poem of a dozen such verses would be like a row of pearls, each 
beyond a king’s ransom.” 


NCE this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 
And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encounter’d in the battle-cloud. 

Ah ! never shall the land forget 

How gush’d the life-blood of her brave,— 

Gush’d, warm with hope and courage yet, 

Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still, 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 

And talk of children on the hill, 

And bell of wandering kine, are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouth’d gun and staggering wain; 

Men start not at the battle-cry: 

Oh, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not now, 

Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year; 


A wild and many-weapon’d throng 

Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 

And blench not at thy chosen lot; 

The timid good may stand aloof, 

The sage may frown—yet faint thou not, 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, 

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 

For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 

The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crush’d to earth, shall rise again ; 
The eternal years of God are hers ; 

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 

And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, 

When they who help’d thee flee in fear, 

Die full of hope and manly trust, 

Like those who fell in battle here. 

Another hand thy sword shall wield, 
Another hand the standard wave, 

Till from the trumpet’s mouth is peal’d 
The blast of triumph o’er thy grave. 









42 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


THE CROWDED STREETS. 


ET me move slowly through the street, 
Filled with an ever-shifting train, 

Amid the sound of steps that beat 

The murmuring walks like autumn rain. 

How fast the flitting figures come; 

The mild, the fierce, the stony face— 

Some bright, with thoughtless smiles, and some 
Where secret tears have left their trace. 

They pass to toil, to strife, to rest— 

To halls in which the feast is spread— 

To chambers where the funeral guest 
In silence sits beside the bed. 

And some to happy homes repair. 

Where children pressing cheek to cheek, 

With mute caresses shall declare 
The tenderness they cannot speak. 

And some who walk in calmness here, 

Shall shudder as they reach the door 

Where one who made their dwelling dear, 

Its flower, its light, is seen no more. 

Youth, with pale cheek and tender frame, 

And dreams of greatness in thine eye, 



Go’st thou to build an early name, 

Or early in the task to die ? 

Keen son of trade, with eager brow, 

Who is now fluttering in thy snare, 

Thy golden fortunes tower they now, 

Or melt the glittering spires in air ? 

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread 
The dance till daylight gleams again ? 

To sorrow o’er the untimely dead ? 

Who writhe in throes of mortal pain ? 

Some, famine struck, shall think how long 
The cold, dark hours, how slow the light; 

And some, who flaunt amid the throng, 

Shall hide in dens of shame to night. 

Each where his tasks or pleasure call, 

They pass and heed each other not; 

There is one who heeds, who holds them all 
In His large love and boundless thought. 

These struggling tides of life that seem 
In wayward, aimless course to tend, 

Are eddies of the mighty stream 
That rolls to its appointed end. 




NOTICE OF FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 

As a specimen of Mr. Bryant’s prose, of which he wrote much, and also as a sample of his criticism, we 
reprint the following extract from a Commemorative Address which he delivered before the New York His¬ 
torical Society in February 18G9. This selection is also valuable as a character sketch and a literary 
estimate of Mr. Halleck. 


HEN I look back upon Halleck’s literary life, 
I cannot help thinking that if his death had 
happened forty years earlier, his life 
would have been regarded as a bright morning 
prematurely overcast. Yet Halleck’s literary career 
may be said to have ended then. All that will hand 
down his name to future years had already been 
produced. Who shall say to what cause his subse¬ 
quent literary inaction was owing? It was not the 
decline of his powers; his brilliant conversation 
showed that it was not. Was it then indifference to 
fame? Was it because he put an humble estimate 
on what he had written, and therefore resolved to 
write no more? Was it because he feared lest what 
he might write would be unworthy of the reputation 
he had been so fortunate as to acquire ? 

“ I have my own way of accounting for his literary 



silence in the latter half of his life. One of the 
resemblances which he bore to Horace consisted in 
the length of time for which he kept his poems by 
him, that he might give them the last and happiest 
touches. Having composed his poems without com¬ 
mitting them to paper, and retaining them in his i 
faithful memory, he revised them in the same manner, 
murmuring them to himself in his solitary moments, 
recovering the enthusiasm with which they were: 
first conceived, and in this state of mind heighten¬ 
ing the beauty of the thought or of the express 
sion. 

“ In this way I suppose Halleck to have attained I 
the gracefulness of his diction, and .the airy melody 
of his numbers. In this way I believe that he 
wrought up his verses to that transparent clearness 
of expression which causes the thought to be seen 























WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


43 


through them without any interposing dimness, so 
that the thought and the phrase seem one, and the 
thought enters the mind like a beam of light. I 
suppose that Halleck’s time being taken up by the 


tasks of his vocation, he naturally lost by degrees the 
habit of composing in this manner, and that he 
found it so necessary to the perfection of what he 
wrote that he adopted no other in its place.” 


<>♦- 


A CORN-SHUCKING IN SOUTH CAROLINA. 

From “ The Letters of a Traveler .” 

In 1843, during Mr. Bryant’s visit to the South, he had the pleasure of witnessing one of those ante¬ 
bellum southern institutions known as a Corn-Shucking—one of the ideal occasions of the colored man’s 
life, to which both men and women were invited. They were free to tell all the jokes, sing all the songs 
and have all the fun they desired as they rapidly shucked the corn. Two leaders were usually chosen and 
the company divided into two parties which competed for a prize awarded to the first party which 
finished shucking the allotted pile of corn. Mr. Bryant thus graphically describes one of these novel 
occasions: 


Barnwell District, ) 
South Carolina, March 29, 1843. j 

UT you must hear of the corn-shucking. 
The one at which I was present was given 
on purpose that I might witness the hu¬ 
mors of the Carolina negroes. A huge fire of light- 
wood was made near the corn-house. Light-wood 
is the wood of the long-leaved pine, and is so called, 
not because it is light, for it is almost the heaviest 
wood in the world, but because it gives more light 
than any other fuel. 

The light-wood-fire was made, and the negroes 
dropped in from the neighboring plantations, singing 
as they came The driver of the plantation, a col¬ 
ored man, brought out baskets of corn in the husk, 
and piled it in a' heap ; and the negroes began to 
strip the husks from the ears, singing with great 
glee as they worked, keeping time to the music, and 
now and then throwing in a joke and an extravagant 
burst of laughter. The songs were generally of a 
comic character; but one of them was set to a sin¬ 
gularly wild and plaintive air, which some of our 
musicians would do well to reduce to notation. 
Tb<e«e are the words: 

Johnny come down de hollow. 

Oh hollow ! 

Johnny come down de hollow. 

Oh hollow ! 

De nigger-trader got me. 

Oh hollow! 

De speculator bought me. 

Oh hollow! 

I’m sold for silver dollars. 

Oh hollow! 



Boys, go catch the pony. 

Oh hollow! 

Bring him round the corner. 

Oh hollow! 

I’m goin’ away to Georgia. 

Oh hollow ! 

Boys, good-by forever! 

Oh hollow ! 

The song of “ Jenny gone away,” was also given, 
and another, called the monkey-song, probably of 
African origin, in which the principal singer person¬ 
ated a monkey, with all sorts of odd gesticulations, 
and the other negroes bore part in the chorus, “ Dan, 
dan, who’s the dandy?” One of the songs com¬ 
monly sung on these occasions, represents the various 
animals of the woods as belonging to some profession 
or trade. For example— 

De cooter is de boatman— 

The cooter is the terrapin, and a very expert boat¬ 
man he is. 


De cooter is de boatman. 

John John Crow. 

De red-bird de soger. 

John John Crow. 

De mocking-bird de lawyer. 

John John Crow. 

De alligator sawyer 

John John Crow. 

# 

The alligator’s back is furnished with a toothed 
ridge, like the edge of a saw, which explains the 
last line. 









44 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 


When the work of the evening was over the 
negroes adjourned to a spacious kitchen. One of 
them took his place as musician, whistling, and beat¬ 
ing time with two sticks upon the floor. Several of 
the men came forward and executed various dances, 
capering, prancing, and drumming with heel and toe 
upon the floor, with astonishing agility and persever¬ 
ance, though all of them had performed their daily 
tasks and had worked all the evening, and some had 
walked from four to seven miles to attend the corn- 
shucking. From the dances a transition was made 
to a mock military parade, a sort of burlesque of our 
militia trainings, in which the words of command 
and the evolutions were extremely ludicrous. It be¬ 
came necessary for the commander to make a speech, 
and confessing his incapacity for public speaking, he 
called upon a huge black man named Toby to ad¬ 


dress the company in his stead. Toby, a man of 
powerful frame, six feet high, his face ornamented 
with a beard of fashionable cut, had hitherto stood 
leaning against the wall, looking upon the frolic with 
an air of superiority. He consented, came forward, 
demanded a bit of paper to hold in his hand, and 
harangued the soldiery. It was evident that Toby 
had listened to stump-speeches in his day. He spoke 
of “ de majority of Sous Carolina,” “ de interests of 
de state,” “ de honor of ole Ba’nwell district,” and 
these phrases he connected by various expletives, and 
sounds of which we could make nothing. At length 
he began to falter, when the captain with admirable 
presence of mind came to his relief, and interrupted 
and closed the harangue with an hurrah from the 
company. Toby was allowed by all the spectators, 
black and white, to have made an excellent speech. 



CORN-SHUCKING IN SOUTH CAROLINA 

























































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EDGAE ALLEN POE. 

i 

THE WEIRD AND MYSTERIOUS GENIUS. 

DGAB ALLEN POE, the author of “ The Baven,” “ Annabel Lee,” 
“The Haunted Palace,” “To One in Paradise,” “ Israfel” and 
“ Lenore,” was in his peculiar sphere, the most brilliant writer, per¬ 
haps, who ever lived. His writings, however, belong to a different 
world of thought from that in which Bryant, Longfellow, Emerson, 
Whittier and Lowell lived and labored. Theirs was the realm of 
nature, of light, of human joy, of happiness, ease, hope and cheer. Poe spoke 
from the dungeon of depression. He was in a constant struggle with poverty. His 
whole life was a tragedy in which sombre shades played an unceasing role, and yet 
from out these weird depths came forth things so beautiful that their very sadness 
is charming and holds us in a spell of bewitching enchantment. Edgar Fawcett 
says of him :— 

“ He loved all shadowy spots, all seasons drear; 

All ways of darkness lured his ghastly whim ; 

Strange fellowships he held with goblins grim, 

At whose demoniac eyes he felt no fear. 

By desolate paths of dream where fancy’s owl 
Sent long lugubrious hoots through sombre air, 

Amid thought’s gloomiest caves he went to prowl 
And met delirium in her awful lair.” 

Edgar Poe was born in Boston February 19th, 1809. His father was a Mary¬ 
lander, as was also his grandfather, who was a distinguished Bevolutionary soldier 
and a friend of GenerafLafayette. The parents of Poe were both actors who toured 
the country in the ordinary manner, and this perhaps accounts for his birth in 
Boston. Their home was in Baltimore, Maryland. 

When Poe was only a few years old both parents died, within two weeks, in 
Richmond, Virginia. Their three children, two daughters, one older and one 
younger than the subject of this sketch, were all adopted by friends of the family. 
Mr. John Allen, a rich tobacco merchant of Eichmond, Virginia, adopted Edgar 
(who was henceforth called Edgar Allen Poe), and had him carefully educated, first 
in England, afterwards at the Eichmond Academy and the University of Virginia, 

45 





















































46 


EDGAR ALLEN POE. 


and subsequently at West Point. He always distinguished himself in his studies, 
but from West Point he was dismissed after one year, it is said because he refused to 
submit to the discipline of the institution. 

In common with the custom in the University of Virginia at that time, Poe 
acquired the habits of drinking and gambling, and the gambling debts which he 
contracted incensed Mr. Allen, who refused to jiay them. This brought on the 
beginning of a series of quarrels which finally led to Poe’s disinheritance and per¬ 
manent separation from his benefactor. Thus turned out upon the cold, unsympa¬ 
thetic world, without business training, without friends, without money, knowing 
not how to make money—yet, with a proud, imperious, aristocratic nature,—we have 
the beginning of the saddest story of any life in literature—struggling for nearly 
twenty years in gloom and poverty, with here and there a ray of sunshine, and 
closing with delirium tremens in Baltimore, October 7th, 1849, at forty years of age. 

To those who know the full details of the sad story of Poe’s life it is little wonder 
that his sensitive, passionate nature sought surcease from disappointment in the 
nepenthe of the intoxicating cup. It was but natural for a man of his nervous 
temperament and delicacy of feeling to fall into that melancholy moroseness which 
would chide even the angels for taking away his beautiful “Annabel Lee;” or that 
he should wail over the “ Lost Lenore,” or declare that his soul should “nevermore” 
be lifted from the shadow of the “ Haven” upon the floor. These poems and others 
are but the expressions of disappointment and despair of a soul alienated from 
hapjiy human relations. While we admire their power and beauty, we should 
remember at what cost of pain and suffering and disappointment they were produced. 
They are powerful illustrations of the prodigal expense of human strength, of 
broken hopes and bitter experiences through which rare specimens of our literature 
are often grown. 

To treat the life of Edgar Allen Poe, with its lessons, fully, would require the 
scope of a volume. Both as a man and an author there is a sad fascination which 
belongs to no other writer, perhaps, in the world. His personal character has been 
represented as pronouncedly double. It is said that Stevenson, who was a great 
admirer of Poe, received the inspiration for his novel, “ Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” 
from the contemplation of his double character. Paul Hamilton Hayne lias also 
written a poem entitled, “ Poe,” which presents in a double shape the angel and 
demon in one body. The first tw r o stanzas of which we quote :— 

“ Two mighty spirits dwelt in him *. 

One, a wild demon, weird and dim, 

The darkness of whose ebon wing's 
Did shroud unutterable things: 

One, a fair angel, in the skies 
Of whose serene, unshadowed eyes 
Were seen the lights of Paradise. 

To these, in turn, he gave the whole 
Vast empire of his brooding soul; 

Now, filled with strains of heavenly swell. 

Now thrilled with awful tones of hell: 

Wide were his being’s strange extremes, 

’Twixt nether glooms, and Eden gleams 
Of tender, or majestic dreams.” 


EEGAR ALLEN POE. 


47 


It must be said in justice to Poe’s memory, however, that the above idea of his 
being both, demon and angel became prevalent through the first biography pub¬ 
lished of him, by Dr. Rufus Griswold, who no doubt sought to avenge himself on 
. the dead poet for the severe but unanswerable criticisms which the latter had 
passed upon his and other contemporaneous authors’ writings. Later biographies, 
notably those of J. H. Ingram and Mrs. Sarah Ellen Whitman, as well as pub¬ 
lished statements from his business associates, have disproved many of Griswold’s 
damaging statements, and placed the private character of Poe in a far more favor¬ 
able light before the world. He left off gambling in his youth, and the appetite 
for drink, which followed him to the close of his life, was no doubt inherited from 
his father who, before him, was a drunkard. 

It is natural for admirers of Poe’s genius to contemplate with regret akin to sor¬ 
row those circumstances and characteristics which made him so unhappy, and yet 
the serious question arises, was not that character and his unhappy life necessary to 
the productions of his marvelous pen ? Let us suppose it was, and in charity draw 
the mantle of forgetfulness over his misguided ways, covering the sad picture of his 
personal life from view, and hang in its place the matchless portrait of his splendid 
genius, before which, with true American pride, we may summon all the world to 
stand with uncovered heads. 

As a writer of short stories Poe had no equal in America. Pie is said to have 
been the originator of the modern detective story. The artful ingenuity with which 
he works up the details of his plot, and minute attention to the smallest illustrative 
particular, give his tales a vivid interest from which no reader can escape. His 
skill in analysis is as marked as his power of word painting. The scenes of gloom 
and terror which he loves to depict, the forms of horror to which he gives almost 
actual life, render his mastery over the reader most exciting and absorbing. 

As a poet Poe ranks among the most original in the world. He is pre-eminently 
a poet of the imagination. It is useless to seek in his verses for philosophy or 
preaching. He brings into his poetry all the weirdness, subtlety, artistic detail and 
facility in coloring which give the charm to his prose stories, and to these he adds 
a musical flow of language which has never been equalled. To him poetry was 
music, and there was no poetry that was not musical. For poetic harmony he has 
had no equal certainly in America, if, indeed, in the world. Admirers of his poems 
are almost sure to read them over and over again, each time finding new forms of 
beauty or charm in them, and the reader abandons himself to a current of melodious 
fancy that soothes and charms like distant music at night, or the rippling of a near¬ 
by, but unseen, brook. The images which he creates are vague and illusive. As 
one of his biographers has written, “ He heard in his dreams the tinkling footfalls 
of angels and seraphim and subordinated everything in his verse to the delicious 
effect of musical sound.” As a literary critic Poe’s capacities were of the greatest. 
“ In that large part of the critic’s perceptions,” says Duyckinck, “ in knowledge of 
the mechanism of composition, he lias been unsurpassed by any writer in America.” 

Poe was also a fine reader and elocutionist. A writer who attended a lecture by 
him in Richmond says : “ I never heard a voice so musical as his. It was full of 

the sweetest melody. No one who heard his recitation of the “Raven” will ever 
forget the beauty and pathos with which this recitation was rendered. The 




48 


EDGAR ALLEN POE. 


audience was still as death, and as his weird, musical voice filled the hall its effect 
was simply indescribable. It seems to me that I can yet hear that long, plaintive 


“ nevermore.” 


Among the labors of Poe, aside from his published volumes and contributions to 
miscellaneous magazines, should be mentioned his various positions from 1834 to 1848 
as critic and editor on the “ Literary Messenger ” of Richmond, Virginia, the 
“ Gentleman’s Magazine” of Philadelphia, “ Graham’s Magazine” of Philadelphia, 
the “Evening Mirror” of New York,and the “Broadway Journal” of New York, 
which positions he successively held. The last he gave up in 1848 with the idea of 
starting a literary magazine of his own, but the jmoject failed, perhaps on account 
of his death, which occurred the next year. His first volume of poems was pub¬ 
lished in 1829. In 1833 he won two prizes, one for prose and one for poetic com¬ 
position, offered by the Baltimore “ Saturday Visitor,” his “ Manuscript Found in 
a Bottle” being awarded the prize for prose and the poem “The Coliseum” for 
poetry. The latter, however, he did not recieve because the judges found the same 
author had won them both. In 1838 Harper Brothers published his ingenious 
fiction, “ The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket.” In 1840 “ Tales 
of the Grotesque and Arabesque” were issued in Philadelphia. In 1844 he took 
up his residence at Fordham, NewYork, where his wife died in 1847, and where he 
continued to reside for the balance of his life. His famous poem the “ Raven” was 
published in 1845, and during 1848 and 1849 he published “Eureka” and 
“ Ulalume,” the former being a prose poem. It is the crowning work of his life, to 
which he devoted the last and most matured energies of his wonderful intellect. 
To those who desire a further insight into the character of the man and his labors 
we would recommend the reading of J. H. Ingram’s “Memoir” and Mrs. Sarah 
Ellen Whitman’s “ Edgar Poe and His Critics,” the latter published in 18G3. 




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EDGAR ALLEN POE 


49 



THE CITY IN THE SEA. 


THE CITY IN THE SEA. 

0 ! Death has rear’d himself a throne 
In a strange city lying alone 
Far down within the dim west, 
Where the good and the bad and 
worst and the best 
Have gone to their eternal rest. 

There shrines, and palaces, and towers, 

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) 

Resemble nothing that is ours. 

Around, by lifting winds forgot, 

Resignedly beneath the sky 
The melancholy waters lie. 

No rays from the holy heaven come down 
On the long night-time of that town ; 

But light from out the lurid sea 

4 PH 



the 


Streams up the turrets silently— 

Gleams up the pinnacles far and free— 
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls— 
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls— 

Up shadowy, long-forgotten bowers 
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers-— 
Up many and many a marvellous shrine 
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine 
The viol, the violet, and the vine. 
Resignedly beneath the sky 
The melancholy waters lie. 

So blend the turrets and shadows there 
That all seem pendulous in air, 

While from a proud tower in the town 
Death looks gigantically down. 

There open fanes and gaping graves 
Yawn level with the luminous waves; 





















50 


EDGAR ALLEN POE. 


But not the riches there that lie 
In each idol’s diamond eye— 

Not the gayly-jewell’d dead 
Tempt the waters from their bed ; 

For no ripples curl, alas ! 

Along that wilderness of glass— 

No swellings tell that winds may be 
Upon some far-off happier sea— 

No heavings hint that winds have been 
On seas less hideously serene. 

But lo, a stir is in the air! 


The wave—-there is a movement there ! 
As if the towers had thrust aside, 

In slightly sinking, the dull tide— 

As if their tops had feebly given 
A void within the filmy heaven. 

The waves have now a redder glow— 
The hours are breathing faint and low— 
And when, amid no earthly moans, 

Down, down that town shall settle hence, 
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, 
Shall do it reverence. 


-©o« 


ANNABEL LEE. 


T was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 

That a maiden there lived whom you may 
know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 

And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
Than to love and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea; 

But we loved with a love that was more than love— 
I and my Annabel Lee— 

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 
Coveted her and me. 



The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 

Went envying her and me— 

Yes !—that was the reason (as all men know, 

In this kingdom by the sea), 

That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
Of those who were older than we— 

Of many far wiser than we— 

And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 









And this was the reason that, long ago, 
In this kingdom by the sea, 

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 

So that her highborn kinsman came 
And bore her away from me, 

To shut her up in a sepulchre, 

In this kingdom by the sea.. 


For the moon never beams, without bringing me 
dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, 
In her sepulchre there by tlie sea— 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 




TO HELEN. 

The following poem was published first “To-,” afterwards the title was changed, “To Helen.” It 

seems to have been written by Poe to Mrs. Sarah Ellen Whitman whom many years afterwards he was 
engaged to marry. The engagement was, however, broken off. The poem was no doubt written before his 
acquaintance with the lady; even before his marriage or engagement to his wife, and at a time perhaps 
when he did not expect to be recognized as a suitor by the unknown woman who had completely captured 
his heart, in the chance meeting which he here so beautifully describes. 


SAW thee once—once only—years ago : 

I must not say how many—but not many. 
It was a July midnight; and from out 
A full-orbed moon that, like thine own soul, 
soaring, 

Sought a precipitant pathway up through heaven, 
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, 

With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, 

Upon the upturned faces of a thousand 



Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, 

Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe— 
Fell on the upturned faces of these roses 
That gave out, in return for the love-light, 

Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death— 

Fell on the upturned faces of these roses 
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted 
By thee and by the poetry of thy presence. 




























CLAD ALL IN WHITE, UPON A VIOLET BANK 
I SAW THEE HALF RECLINING ; WHILE THE MOON 
FELL ON THE UPTURNED FACES OF THE ROSES, 

AND ON THINE OWN, UPTURNED—ALAS ! IN SORROW. 


Was it not Fate that, on this July midnight— 
.Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow) 

That bade me pause before that garden-gate 
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? 
No footstep stirred : the hated world all slept, 
Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked— 
And in an instant all things disappeared. 

(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted !) 
The pearly lustre of the moon went out: 

The mossy banks and the meandering paths, 

The happy flowers and the repining trees, 

Were seen no more: the very roses’ odors 
Died in the arms of the adoring airs. 

All, all expired save thee—save less than thou: 
Save only the divine light in thine eyes— 

Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. 

I saw but them—they were the world to me. 

I saw but them—saw only them for hours— 

Saw only them until the moon went down. 

What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten 


Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres! 

How dark a wo, yet how sublime a hope! 

How silently serene a sea of pride ! 

How daring an ambition ! yet how deep— 

How fathomless a capacity for love ! 

But now. at length, dear Dian sank from sight 
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud, 

And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees 
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. 
They would not go—they never yet have gone. 
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, 
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. 
They follow me, they lead me through the years; 
They are my ministers—yet I their slave. 

Their office is to illumine and enkindle— 

My duty, to be saved by their bright light, 

And purified in their electric fire— 

And sanctified in their elysian fire. 

They fill my soul with beauty (which is hope), 







52 


EDGAR ALLEN POE. 


And are far up in heaven, the stars I kneel to 
In the sad, silent watches of my night; 

While even in the meridian glare of day 


I see them still—two sweetly scintillanfc 
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun ! 




ISRAFEL* 



heaven a spirit doth dwell 
“ Whose heart-strings are a lute ; ” 
None sing so wildly well 
As the angel Israfel, 

And the giddy stars (so legends tell) 
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 
Of his voice, all mute. 


Tottering above 

In her highest noon, 

The enamour’d moon 
Blushes with love, 

While, to listen, the red levin 
(With the rapid Pleiads, even, 
Which were seven) 

Pauses in heaven. 


And they say (the starry choir 
And the other listening things) 
That Israfeli’s fire 
Is owing to that lyre 

By which he sits and sings— 

The trembling living wire 
Of those unusual strings. 

But the skies that angel trod, 

Where deep thoughts are a duty— 
Where Love’s a grown-up god— 


Where the Houri glances are 
Imbued with all the beauty 
Which we worship in a star. 

Therefore, thou art not wrong, 

Israfeli, who despisest 
An unimpassion’d song; 

To thee the laurels belong, 

Best bard, because the wisest! 

Merrily live, and long! 

The ecstasies above 

With thy burning measures suit— 

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 
With the fervor of thy lute— 

Well may the stars be mute! 

Yes, heaven is thine ; but this 
Is a world of sweets and sours ; 

Our flowers are merely—flowers, 

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
Is the sunshine of ours. 

If I could dwell 
Where Israfel 

Hath dwelt, and he where I, 

He might not sing so wildly well 
A mortal melody, 

While a bolder note than this might swell 
From my lyre within the sky. 


TO ONE IN PARADISE. 


HOU wast all that to me, love, 

For which my soul did pine— 

A green isle in the sea, love, 

A fountain and a shrine, 

All wreath’d with fairy fruits and flowers, 
And all the flowers were mine. 

Ah, dream too bright to last! 

Ah, starry Hope ! that didst arise 
But to be overcast! 

A voice from out the Future cries, 

“ On ! on ! ”—but o’er the Past 

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies 
Mute, motionless, aghast! 



For, alas! alas! with me 
The light of life is o’er! 

No more—no more—no more— 
(Such language holds the solemn sea 
To the sands upon the shore) 

Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, 

7 

Or the stricken eagle soar! 

And all my days are trances, 

And all my nightly dreams 
Are where thy dark eye glances. 

And where thy footstep gleams— 
In what ethereal dances, 

By what eternal streams. 


*“ And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures/- 


















EDGAR ALLEN POE. 


53 


LENORE. 


>Irs. Whitman, in her reminiscences of Poe, tells us the following incident which gave rise to the writing 
of these touching lines. While Poe was in the Academy at Richmond, Virginia,—as yet a boy of about 
sixteen years,—he was invited by a friend to visit his home. The mother of this friend was a singularly 
beautiful and withal a most kindly and sympathetic woman. Having learned that Poe was an orphan she 
greeted him with the motherly tenderness and affection shown toward her own son. The boy was so over¬ 
come that it is said he stood for a minute unable to speak and finally with tears he declared he had never 
before known his loss in the love of a true and devoted mother. From that time forward he was frequently 
a visitor, and the attachment between him and this kind-hearted woman continued to grow. On Poe’s 
return from Europe when he was about twenty years of age, he learned that she had died a few days before 
his arrival, and was so overcome with grief that he went nightly to her grave, even when it was dark and 
rainy, spending hours in fancied communion with her spirit. Later he idealized in his musings the embodi¬ 
ment of such a spirit in a young and beautiful woman, whom he made his lover and whose untimely death 
he imagined and used as the inspiration of this poem. 



H, broken is the golden bowl, 
The spirit flown forever ! 
Let the bell toll! 

A saintly soul 
Floats on the Stygian river; 

And, Guy de Vere, 
blast thou no tear? 

Weep now or never more ! 

See, on yon drear 
And rigid bier 


Low lies thy love, Lenore ! 
Come, let the burial-rite be read— 
The funeral-song be sung !— 


An anthem for the queenliest dead 
That ever died so young— 

A dirge for her the doubly dead, 
In that she died so young ! 


“ Wretches ! ye loved her for her wealth, 
And hated her for her pride; 

And when she fell in feeble health, 

Ye bless’d her—that she died ! 

How shall the ritual, then, be read? 

The requiem how be sung 
By you—by yours, the evil eye— 

By yours the slanderous tongue 
That did to death the innocence 
That died, and died so young ? ” 


Peccavimus ; 

But rave not thus ! 

And let a sabbath song 

Go up to God so solemnly, the dead may feel no 
wrong! 


The sweet Lenore 
Hath “ gone before,’’ 

With Hope, that flew beside, 
Leaving thee wild 
For the dear child 

That should have been thy bride— 
For her, the fair 
And debonair , 

That now so lowly lies, 

The life upon her yellow hair 
But not within her eyes— 

The life still there, 

Upon her hair— 

The death upon her eyes. 

“ Avaunt! to-night 
My heart is light. 

No dirge will I upraise, 

But waft the angel on her flight 
With a pman of old days! 

Let no bell toll!— 

Lest her sweet soul, 

Amid its hallow’d mirth, 

Should catch the note 
As it doth float— 

Up from the damned earth. 

To friends above, from fiends below, 
The indignant ghost is riven— 
From hell unto a high estate 
Far up within the heaven— 

From grief and groan, 

To a golden throne, 

Beside the King of Heaven.” 


-+o+- 


THE BELLS. 


This selection is a favorite with reciters. It is an excellent piece for voice culture. The musical flow ot 
the metre and happy selection of the words make it possible for the skilled speakei to closel} imitate the 

sounds of the ringing bells. 



EAR the sledges with the bells—- 
Silver bells! 

What a world of merriment their melody 
foretells! 


How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night! 

While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 





















54 


EDGAR ALLEN POE. 


With a crystalline delight; 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells— 

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 

Hear the mellow wedding bells— 

Golden bells! 

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight! 

From the molten-golden notes, 

And all in tune, 

What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon ! 

Oh, from out the sounding cells, 

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 

How it swells ! 

How it dwells. 

On the future! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, bells, bells,— 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells— 

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! 

• 

Hear the loud alarum bells— 

Brazen bells ! 

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright! 

Too much horrified to speak, 

They can only shriek, shriek, 

Out of tune, 

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 

In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 

With a desperate desire, 

And a resolute endeavor, 

Now—now to sit or never, 

By the side of the pale-faced moon. 

Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 

What a tale their terror tells 
Of despair! 

How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 

What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 

Yet the ear it fully knows, 

By the twanging, 

And the clanging, 

How the danger ebbs and flows; 


Yet the ear distinctly tells, 

In the jangling 
And the wrangling, 

How the danger sinks and swells, 

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the 

bells— 

Of the bells— 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells— 

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! 

Hear the tolling of the bells— 

Iron bells! 

What a world of solemn thought their monodj < 

compels! 

In the silence of the night, 

How we shiver with affright, 

At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 

For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 
Is a groan. 

And the people—ah, the people— 

They that dwell up in the steeple, 

All alone, 

And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone, 

Feel a glory in so rolling 
On the human heart a stone— 

They are neither man nor woman— 

They are neither brute nor human— 

They are ghouls: 

And their king it is who tolls; 

And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, 

A paean from the bells! 

And his merry bosom swells 
With the paean of the bells! 

And he dances and he veils; 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the paean of the bells— 

Of the bells ; 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the throbbing of the bells— 

Of the bells, bells, bells, 

To the sobbing of the bells; 

Keeping time, time, time. 

As he knells, knells, knells, 

In a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells,— 

Of the bells, bells, bells,— 

To the tolling of the bells, 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,— 

Bells, bells, bells,— 

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 










EDGAR ALLEN POE 


55 


THE RAVEN. 


wiTh pvnnfil allowed to be one of the most remarkable examples of a harmony of sentiment 

to Sn from honv, - be f ° U ? d m an ^ 1 ^anguage. While the poet sits musing in his study, endeavor- 
the room and nprrlip<? ?t sorrow for the lost Lenore,” a raven — the symbol of despair—enters 

with its haunting croak of “NevefmOTe ’^' A C ° ° qUy foll ° WS between tbe P°et and the bird of ill omen 



THE RAVEN. 


S ivgNGrii nyon a midnight dreary, while I pon- 
^ J a^reci, weak and weary, 

Over many a quaint and curious volume 
of forgotton lore,— 

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly 
there came a tapping. 

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at 
my chamber-door. 

“ ’Tis some visitor/’ I mutter’d, “tapping 
at my chamber-door— 

Only this and nothing more.” 

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak De¬ 
cember, 


And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost, 
upon the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought 
to borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the 
lost Lenore,— 

For the rare and raidant maiden whom the angels 
name Lenore,— 

Nameless here forevermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple 
curtain, 

Thrilled me,—filled me with fantastic terrors never 
felt before; 














































































56 


EDGAR ALLEN POE. 


So that now, to still the beating of my heart, T stood f 
repeating, 

“ ’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber- 
door,— 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber- 
door ; 

That it is, and nothing more.” 

Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no 
longer, 

“ Sir,” said I, “ or Madam, truly your forgiveness I 
implore; 

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you 
came rapping, 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my 
chamber-door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you ”—here I opened 
wide the door: 

Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, 
wondering, fearing, 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to 
dream before; 

But the silence was unbroken, dnd the stillness gave 
no token, 

And the only word there spoken was the whispered 
word, “ Lenore ! ” 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the 
word, “ Lenore ! ” 

Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within 
me burning, 

Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than 
before. 

“ Surely,” said I, “ surely that is something at my 
window-lattice; 

Let me see then what thereat is and this mystery 
explore,— 

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery 
explore;— 

’Tis the wind, and nothing more.” 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a 
flirt and flutter, 

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days 
of yore. 

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute 
stopped or stayed he ; 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my 
chamber-door,— 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my cham 
ber-door— 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebon bird beguiling my sad fancy into 
smiling, 


u 


By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance 
it wore, 

Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” 1 
said, “ art sure no craven ; 

Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the 
nightly shore, 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s Plu¬ 
tonian shore ? ” 

Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore I ” 


Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse 
so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy 
bore; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human 
being 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his 
chamber-door, 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his 
chamber-door 

With such name as “ Nevermore ! ” 


But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke 
only 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did 
outpour. 

Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then 
he fluttered— 

Till I scarcely more than muttered, “ Other friends 
have flown before, 

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have 
flown before. 

Then the bird said, “ Nevermore ! ” 


Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly 
spoken, 

“ Doubtless,” said I, “ what it utters is its only stock 
and store, 

Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful 
disaster 

Follow’d fast and follow’d faster, till his songs one 
burden bore, 

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden 

bore, 

Of—‘ Necer—nevermore ! ’ ” 


But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul ii 
. smiling, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird 
and bust and door, 

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to 
linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird 
of yore— 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and omi¬ 
nous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking “ Nevermore ! ” 









EDGAR ALLEN POE. 


57 


This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex¬ 
pressing 

To the fowl whose 
bosom’s core; 

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease 
reclining 

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light 
gloated o’er, 

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light 
gloating o’er 

She shall press—ah ! nevermore ! 


fiery eyes now burned into my 


“ Prophet! ” cried I, “ thing of evil!—prophet still, if 
bird or devil! 

By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we 
both adore, 

Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant 
Aidenn, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels 
name Lenore; 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels 
name Lenore! ” 

Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore ! ” 


Then methougbt the air grew denser, perfumed from 
an unseen censer 

Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the 
tufted floor, 

“ Wretch,” I cried, “ thy God hath lent thee,—by 
these angels he hath sent thee 

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of 
Lenore! 

Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget the 
lost Lenore! ” 

Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore ! ” 


“ Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! ” I 
shrieked, upstarting,— 

“Get thee back into the tempest and the night’s 
Plutonian shore! 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul 
hath spoken ! 

Leave my loneliness unbroken !—quit the bust above 
my door! 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form 
from off my door ! ” 

Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore ! ” 


Prophet! ” cried I, “ thing of evil!—prophet still, if 
bird or devil! 

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed 
thee here ashore, 

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land en¬ 
chanted— 

On this home by horror haunted—tell me truly, I 
implore,— 

Is there—is there balm in Gilead ?—tell me—tell 
me, I implore ! ” 

Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore ! ” 


And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 
v sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber- 
door; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that 
is dreaming, 

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his 
shadow on the floor; 

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating 
on the floor 

Shall be lifted—nevermore ! 










HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


THE POET OF THE PEOPLE. 

u He who sung to one clear harp in divers tones.” 

N an old square wooden house upon the edge of the sea” the most 
famous and most widely read of all American poets was born in 
Portland, Maine, February 7th, 1807. . J 

In his personality, his wide range of themes, his learning and his 
wonderful power of telling stories in song, Henry Wadsworth 
Longfellow stood in his day and still stands easily in front of all 
other poets ivlio have enriched American literature. Admitting that he was not 
rugged and elemental like Bryant and did not possess the latter’s feelings for 
the colossal features of wild scenery, that he was not profoundly thoughtful 
and transcendental like Emerson, that he was not so earnestly and passionately 
sympathetic as Whittier, nevertheless he was our first artist in poetry. Bryant, 
Emerson and Whittier commanded but a few stops of the grand instrument 
upon which they played; Longfellow understood perfectly all its capabilities. 
Critics also say that “ he had not the high ideality or dramatic power of 
Tennyson or Browning.” But does he not hold something else which to the world 
at large is joerhaps more valuable ? Certainly these two great poets are inferior to 
him in the power to sweep the chords of daily human experiences and call forth the 
sweetness and beauty in common-place every day human life. It is on these themes 
that he timed his harp without ever a false tone, and sang with a harmony so well nigh 
perfect that the universal heart responded to his music. This common-place song 
has found a lodgement in every household in America, “ swaying the hearts of men 
and women whose sorrows have been soothed and whose lives raised by his gentle 
verse.” 

“ Such songs have power to quiet 
The restless pulse of care, 

And come like the benediction 
That follows after prayer.” 

Longfellow’s life from the very beginning moved on even lines. Both he and 
William Cullen Bryant were descendants of John Alden, whom Longfellow has 
made famous in “ The Courtship of Miles Standish.” The Longfellows were a 
family in comfortable circumstances, peaceful and honest, for many generations back. 

58 



























HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


59 


The poet went to school with Nathaniel P. Willis and other boys who at an early 
age weie thinking more of verse making than of pleasure. He graduated at Bow- 
dom College in 1825 with Nathaniel Hawthorne, John S. C. Abbott, and others 
who afterwards attained to fame. Almost immediately after his graduation he w r as 
i equested to take the chair of Modern Languages and Literature in his alma mater., 
which Ae accepted; but before entering upon his duties spent three years in Grer* 
many, France, Spain and Italy to further perfect himself in the languages and 
literature of those nations. At Bowdoin College Longfellow 7 remained as Professor 
of Modern Languages and Literature until 1835, when he accepted a similar posi¬ 
tion in Harvard University, which he continued to occupy until 1854, when lie 



THE WAYSIDE INN. 

Scene of Longfellow’s Famous “Tales of the Wayside Inn” 


resigned, devoting the remainder of his life to literary work and to the enjoyment 
of the association of such friends as Charles Sumner the statesman, Hawthorne the 
romancer, Louis Agassiz the great naturalist, and James Bussell Low 7 ell, the brother 
poet who succeeded to the chair of Longfellow in Harvard University on the latter’s 
resignation. 

The home of Longfellow w 7 as not only a delightful place to visit on account of 
the cordial welcome extended by the companionable poet, but for its historic asso¬ 
ciations as w r ell ; for it was none other than the old “ Cragie House” which had 
been Washington’s headquarters during the Bevolutionary War, the past tradition 
and recent hospitality of which have been well told by G. W. Curtis in his “ Homes 
of American Authors.” It was here that Longfellow surrounded himself with a 


















60 


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


magnificent library, and within these walls he composed all of his famous produc¬ 
tions from 1839 until his death, which occurred there in 1882 at the age of seventy- 
five. The poet was twice married and was one of the most domestic of men. His 
first wife died suddenly in Europe during their sojourn in that country while Long¬ 
fellow was pursuing his post graduate course of study before taking the chair in Bow- 
doin College. In 1843 he married Miss Frances Appleton, whom he had met in 
Europe and who figures in the pages of his romance “Hyperion.” In 1861 she met 
a most tragic death by stepping on a match which set fire to her clothing, causing 
injuries from which she died. She was buried on the 19th anniversary of their mar¬ 
riage. By Longfellow’s own direction she was crowned with a wreath of orange 
blossoms commemorative of the day. The poet was so stricken with grief that for 
a year afterwards he did practically no work, and it is said neither in conversation 
nor in writing to his most intimate friends could he bear to refer to the sad event. 

Longfellow was one of the most bookish men in our literature. His knowledge 
of others’ thoughts and writings was so great that he became, instead of a creator in 
his poems, a painter of things already created. It is said that he never even owned 
a style of his own like Bryant and Poe, but assimilated what he saw or heard or 
read from books, reclothing it and sending it out again. This does not intimate 
that he was a plagiarist, but that he wrote out of the accumulated knowledge of 
others. “Evangeline,” for instance, was given him by Hawthorne, who had heard 
of the young people of Acadia and kept them in mind, intending to weave them into 
a romance. The forcible deportation of 18,000 French people touched Hawthorne 
as it perhaps never could have touched Longfellow except in literature, and also as 
it certainly never would have touched the world had not Longfellow woven the 
woof of the story in the threads of his song. 

“Evangeline” was brought out the same year with Tennyson’s “Princess” (1847), 
and divided honors with the latter even in England. In this poem, and in “The ; 
Courtship of Miles Standish” and other poems, the pictures of the new world are 
brought out with charming simplicity. Though Longfellow never visited Acadia 
or Louisiana, it is the real French village of Grand Pre and the real Louisiana, not 
a poetic dream that are described in this poem. So vivid were his descriptions that 
artists in Europe painted the scenes true to nature and vied with each other in paint¬ 
ing the portrait of Evangeline, among several of which there is said to be so striking 
a resemblance as to suggest the idea that one had served as a copy for the others. 
The poem took such a hold upon the public, that both the poor man and the rich 
knew Longfellow as they knew not Tennyson their own poet. It was doubtless be- | 
cause he, though one of the most scholarly of men, always spoke so the plainest j 
reader could understand. 

In “The Tales of a Wayside Inn” (1863), the characters were not fictions, but | 
real persons. The musician was none other than the famous violinist, Ole Bull; 
Professor Luigi Monte, a close friend who dined every Sunday with Longfellow, was 
the Sicilian; Hr. Henry Wales was the youth; the poet was Thomas W. Parsons, 
and the theologian was his brother, Rev. S. W. Longfellow. This poem shows 
Longfellow at his best as a story teller, while the stories which are put into the 
mouth of these actual characters perhaps could have been written by no other liv¬ 
ing man, for they are from the literature of all countries, with which Longfellow was 
so familiar. 








HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


61 


Thus, both “The Tales of a Wayside Inn” and “Evangeline”— -as many other of 
ongfellow s poems—may be called compilations or rewritten stories, rather than 
creations, and it was these characteristics of his writings which Poe and Margaret 
Fuller, and others, who considered the realm of poetry to belong purely to the 
imagination rather than the real world, so bitterly criticised. While they did not 
deny to Longfellow a poetic genius, they thought he was prostituting it by forcing 
it to drudge in the province of prosaic subjects; and for this reason Poe predicted 
that he would not live in literature. 

It was but natural that Longfellow should write as he did. For thirty-five years 
he was an instructor in institutions of learning, and as such believed that poetry 
should be a thing of use as well as beauty. He could not agree with Poe that 
poetry was like music, only a pleasurable art. He had the triple object of stimu¬ 
lating to research and study, of impressing the mind with history or moral truths, 
and at the same time to touch and warm the heart of humanity. In all three direc¬ 
tions he succeeded to such an extent that he has probably been read by more people 
than any other poet except the sacred Psalmist; and despite the predictions of liis 
distinguished critics to the contrary, such poems as “The Psalm of Life,” (which 
Chas. Sumner allowed, to his knowledge, had saved one man from suicide), “The 
Children’s Hour,” and many others touching the every day experiences of the 
multitude, will find a glad echo in the souls of humanity as long as men shall read. 

— - - 

THE PSALM OF LIFE. 

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. 

This poem has gained wide celebrity as one of Mr. Longfellow’s most popular pieces, as has also the 
poem “Excelsior,” (hereafter quoted). They strike a popular chord and do some clever preaching and it 
is in this their chief merit consists. They are by no means among the author’s best poetic productions from 
a critical standpoint. Both these poems were written in early life. 


ELL me not, in mournful numbers, 

Life is but an empty dream! 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real! Life is earnest! 

And the grave is not its goal; 

Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way; 

But to act, that each to-morrow 
Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world’s broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 



Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 

Be a hero in the strife! 

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead! 
Act,—act in the living Present! 
Heart within, and God o’erhead! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 
And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time; 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwreck’d brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 









62 


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 


THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 


NDEK a spreading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands ; 

The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long; 

His face is like the tan ; 

His brow is wet with honest sweat; 


He earns whate’er he can, 

And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge. 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell 
When the evening sun is low. 




They love to see the flaming forge, 
And hear the bellows roar, 

And catch the burning sparks that fly 
Like chaff from the threshing floor. 


And children coming home from school 
Look in at the open door; 

They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 

And catch the burning sparks that fly 
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys; 

He hears the parson pray and preach, 
tie hears his daughter’s voice, 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 


It sounds to him like her mother’s voice, 
Singing in Paradise! 

He needs must think of her once more, 
How in the grave she lies; 

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 
A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling—rejoicing—sorrowing— 

Onward through life he goes: 

Each morning sees some task begin, 
Each evening sees it close ; 





















































































HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


63 


Something attempted—something done, 
Has earned a night’s repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend 
For the lesson thou hast taught! 


Thus at the flaming forge of Life 
Our fortunes must be wrought, 
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 


-+<>• 


THE BRIDGE. 


A favorite haunt of Longfellow’s was the bridge between Boston and Cambridge, over which he had to 
pass, almost daily. “ I always stop on the bridge,” he writes in his journal. “Tide waters are beautiful,” and 
again, “ We leaned for a while on the wooden rails and enjoyed the silvery reflections of the sea, making 
Sundry comparisons.” Among other thoughts, we have these cheering ones, that “The old sea was flash¬ 
ing with its heavenly light, though w r e saw it only in a single track ; the dark waves are dark provinces o/' 
God ; illuminous though not to us.” 

The following poem was the result of one of Longfellow’s reflections, while standing on this bridge at 
midnight. 


stood on the bridge at midnight, 

As the clocks were striking the hour 
And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church tower; 

And like the waters rushing 
Among the wooden piers, 

A flood of thought came o’er me, 

That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, 0 how often, 

In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at midnight, 

And gazed on that wave and sky! 

How often, 0 how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 

Would bear me away on its bosom 
O'er the ocean wild and wide! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 

And my life was full of care, 

And the burden laid upon me, 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea; 


And only the sorrow of others 
Throws its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers, 
Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 
Of care-encumbered men, 

Each having his burden of sorrow, 
Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 
Still passing to and fro, 

The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old, subdued and slow! 

And forever and forever, 

As long as the river flows, 

As long as the heart has passions, 

As long as life has woes; 

The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear, 

As the symbol of love in heaven, 

And its wavering image here. 



-K>«- 

RESIGNATION. 



HERE is no flock, however watched and 
tended, 

But one dead lamb is there ! 

There is no fireside, howsoe’r defended, 
But has one vacant chair ! 


The air is full of farewells to the dying 
And mournings for the dead ; 

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 
Will not be comforted ! 


Let us be patient! These severe afflictions 
Not from the ground arise, 

But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
Assume this dark disguise. 


We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 
May be heaven’s distant lamps. 























64 


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


There is no Death ! Wliat seems so is transition: 
This life of mortal breath 

Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead,—the child of our affection,— 
But gone unto that school 

Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 
And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister’s stillnes and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led, 

Safe from temptation, safe from sin s pollution, 
She lives whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 
In those bright realms of air ; 

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing 
Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her. and keep unbp re 
The bend which nature gives, 


GOD'S 

like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls 
The burial-ground God’s acre ! It is just; 

It consecrates each grave within its walls, 
And breathes a benison o’er the sleeping 
dust. 

God’s Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown 
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, 
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 

In the sure faith that we shall rise again 



Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken 
May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her; 

For when with raptures wild 

In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child: 

But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion, 
Clothed with celestial grace ; 

And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion 
Shall we behold her face. 

And though, at times, impetuous with emotion 
And anguish long suppressed, 

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 
That/ cannot be at rest,— 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 
We may not wholly stay; 

By silence sanctifying, not concealing 
The grief that must have way. 


ACRE. 

At the great harvest, when the archangel’s blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan the chaff and grain. 

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, 

In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 

And each bright blossom mingle its perfume 

With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. 

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod. 
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; 

This is the field and Acre of our God ! 

This is the place where human harvests grow ! 


-•O* 


EXCELSIOR. 


HE shades of night were failing fast, 

As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, 

Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright; 



Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 

And from his lips escaped a groan. 
Excelsior ! 

“ Try not to Pass !” the old man said; 

“ Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide !” 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior! 

“ 0, stay,” the maiden said, “ and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast!” 

A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 



































---”~ 








nniimawn 






















HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


G5 


“ Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche !” 

This was the peasant’s last Good-night; 

A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 

A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior! 


A traveler, by the faithful hound, 
Half-buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 

There, in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 

And from the sky, serene and far, 

A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior! 


*o+- 


THE RAINY DAY. 


HE day is cold, and dark and dreary; 

It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 

And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; 

It rains, and the wind is never weary; 

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, 



But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 

Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days must be dark dreary. 


-K>«- 

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 


The writing of the following poem, “The Wreck of the Hesperus,” was occasioned by the news of a 
ship-wreck on the coast near Gloucester, and by the name of a reef—“ Norman’s Woe”—where many 
disasters occurred. It was written one night between tw r elve and three o’clock, and cost the poet, it is 
said, hardly an effort. 



T was the schooner Hesperus 
That sailed the wintry sea; 

And the skipper had taken his 
daughter, 

To bear him company. 


little 


Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, 

Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

His pipe was in his mouth, 

And watched how the veering flaw did blow 
The smoke now west, now south. 

Then up and spake an old sailor, 

Had sailed the Spanish main: 

“ I pray thee put into yonder port, 

For I fear a hurricane. 

H Last night the moon had a golden ring, 

And to-night no moon we see !” 

The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, 
And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

5PH 


Colder and colder blew the wind, 

A gale from the north-east; 

The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm and smote amain 
The vessel in its strength ; 

She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, 
Then leaped her cable’s length. 

“ Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter 
And do not tremble so, 

For I can weather the roughest gale 
That ever wind did blow.” 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat, 
Against the stinging blast; 

He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

“ Oh father ! I hear the church-bells ring, 

Oh say what may it be ? ” 

“ ’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast 
And he steered for the open sea. 

























66 


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


“ Oh father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

Oh, say, what may it be ? ” 

“ Some ship in distress, that cannot live 
In such an angry sea.” 

“ Oh, father ! I see a gleaming light, 

Oh, say, what may it be ? 

But the father answered never a word— 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 

With his face to the skies, 

The lantern gleamed, through the gleaming snow 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands, and prayed 
That saved she might be ; 

And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waves 
On the lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
Through the whistling sleet and snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept, 

Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe. 

And ever, the fitful gusts between, 

A sound came from the land ; 

It was the sound of the trampling surf 
On the rocks and hard sea-sand. 


The breakers were right beneath her bows, 
She drifted a dreary wreck, 

And a whooping billow swept the crew 
Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 
Looked soft as carded wool, 

But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 
Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 

With the masts, went by the board; 

Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank— 
IIo ! ho ! the breakers roared. 

At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 

To see the form of a maiden fair 
Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes; 

And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed, 
On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midnight and the snow; 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 

On the reef of Norman's Woe. 

+o* - 


THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 



OMEWHAT back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned country seat; 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw ; 
And, from its station in the hall, 

An ancient timepiece says to all, 

“ Forever—never ! 


Never—-forever ” 


Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, 
And as if, like God, it all things saw, 

It calmly repeats those words of awe, 

“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever!” 


Half-way up the stairs it stands, 

And points and beckons with its hands v 
From its case of massive oak, 

Like a monk who, under his cloak, 
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 

With sorrowful voice to all who pass, 

“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever!” 


In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality ; 

His great fires up the chimney roared; 
The stranger feasted at his board ; 

But, like the skeleton at the feast, 

That warning timepiece never ceased 
“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever!” 


By day its voice is low and light; 

But in the silent dead of night, 

Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall, 

It echoes along the vacant hall, 

Along the ceiling, along the floor, 

And seems to say at each chamber door, 
“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever!” 


There groups of merry children played; 

There youths and maidens dreaming strayed 
Oh, precious hours ! oh, golden prime 
And affluence of love and time ! 

Even as a miser counts his gold, 

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,— 

“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever!” 











HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


67 


From that chamber, clothed in white, 

The bride came forth on her wedding night; 
There, in that silent room below, 

The dead lay, in his shroud of snow; 

And, in the hush that followed the prayer, 

Was heard the old clock on the stair,— 

“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever!” 

All are scattered now, and fled,— 

Some are married, some are dead : 

And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 

“ Ah !” when shall they all meet again? 


As in the days long since gone by, 

The ancient timepiece makes reply, 

“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever !” 

Never here, forever there, 

Where all parting, pain, and care 
And death, and time shall disappear,— 
Forever there, but never here ! 

The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, 

“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever!” 




THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 


The writing of this famous ballad was suggested to Mr. Longfellow by the digging up of a mail-clad 
skeleton at Fall-River, Massachusetts—a circumstance which the poet linked with the traditions about the 
Round Tower at Newport, thus giving to it the spirit of a Norse Viking song of war and of the sea. It is 
written in the swift leaping meter employed by Drayton in his “Ode to the Cambro Britons on their 
Harp.” 



PEAK ! speak ! thou fearful guest! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 

Comest to daunt me ! 

Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 

But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretch’d, as if asking alms, 

Why dost thou haunt me? ” 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise, 

As when the Northern skies 
Gleam in December ; 

And, like the water’s flow 
Under December’s snow, 

Came a dull voice of woe 
From the heart’s chamber. 


“ Oft to his frozen lair 
Track’d I the grizzly bear, 
While from my path the hare 
Fled like a shadow ; 

Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf’s bark, 
Until the soaring lark 
Sang from the meadow. 

“ But when I older grew, 
Joining a corsair’s crew, 

O’er the dark sea I flew 
With the marauders. 

Wild was the life we led ; 
Many the souls that sped, 
Many the hearts that bled, 

By our stern orders. 


“ I was a Viking old ! 

My deeds, though manifold, 

No Skald in song has told, 

No Saga taught thee ! 

Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse, 
Else dread a dead man’s curse! 
For this I sought thee. 


“ Many a wassail-bout 
Wore the long winter out; 
Often our midnight shout 
Set the cocks crowing, 
As we the Berserk’s tale 
Measured in cups of ale, 
Draining the oaken pail, 
Fill’d to o’erflowing. 


“ Far in the Northern Land, 

By the wild Baltic’s strand, 

I, with my childish hand, 

Tamed the ger-falcon ; 

And, with my skates fast-bound, 
Skimm’d the half-frozen Sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 
Trembled to walk on. 


“ Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 

Soft eyes did gaze on me, 
Burning out tender; 

And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine, 
On that dark heart of mine 
Fell their soft splendor. 







68 


HENRY 


WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


I woo’d the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half afraid, 

And in the forest’s shade 
Our vows were plighted. 

Under its loosen’d vest 
Flutter’d her little breast, 

Like birds within their nest 
By the hawk frighted. 

Bright in her father’s hall 
Shields gleam’d upon the wall, 

Loud sang the minstrels all, 
Chanting his glory; 

When of old Hildebrand 
I ask’d his daughter’s hand, 

Mute did the minstrel stand 
To hear my story. 

While the brown ale he quaff ’d 
Loud then the champion laugh’d, 
And as the wind-gusts waft 
The sea-foam brightly, 

So the loud laugh of scorn, 

Out of those lips unshorn, 

From the deep drinking-horn 
Blew the foam lightly. 

She was a Prince’s child, 

I but a Viking wild, 

And though she blush’d and smiled, 
I was discarded! 

Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew’s flight, 

Why did they leave that night 
Her nest unguarded ? 

; Scarce had I put to sea, 

Bearing the maid with me,— 
Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen !— 

When on the white sea-strand, 
Waving his armed hand, 

Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 

Then launch’d they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 

Yet we were gaining fast, 

When the wind fail’d us ; 

And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 

So that our foe we saw 
Laugh as he hail’d us. 


‘And as to catch the gale 
Bound veer’d the flapping sail, 
Death ! was the helmsman’s hail, 
Death without quarter! 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel; 

Down her black hulk did reel 
Through the black water. 

‘ As with his wings aslant, 

Sails the fierce cormorant, 

Seeking some rocky haunt, 

With his prey laden, 

So toward the open main, 

Beating to sea again, 

Through the wild hurricane, 

Bore I the maiden. 

“ Three w r eeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o’er, 
Cloud-like we saw the shore 
Stretching to lee-w r ard; 

There for my lady’s bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 

Which, to this very hour, 

Stands looking sea-ward. 

“ There lived we many years; 

Time dried the maiden’s tears; 

She had forgot her fears, 

She was a mother ; 

Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
Under that tower she lies: 

Ne’er shall the sun arise 
On such another! 

“ Still grew my bosom then, 

Still as a stagnant fen ! 

Hateful to me were men, 

The sun-light hateful! 

In the vast forest here, 

Clad in my warlike gear, 

Fell I upon my spear, 

0, death was grateful! 

“ Thus, seam’d with many scars 
Bursting these prison bars, 

Up to its native stars 
My soul ascended ! 

There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior’s soul, 
Ska!! to the Northland ! skal!" * 
—Thus the tale ended. 


* Skal! is the Swedish expression for “ Your Health." 























mnrfliimr 


|| 11 ij 

illllil 

l 

i 






JOHN G. WHITTIER, HIS HOME AND BIRTHPLACE 


_ 
















































































HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


69 


KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. 


ITLAF, a king of the Saxons, 

Ere yet his last he breathed, 

To the merry monks of Croyland 
His drinking-horn bequeathed,— 

That, whenever they sat at their revels, 
And drank from the golden bowl, 

They might remember the donor, 

And breathe a prayer for his soul. 

So sat they once at Christmas, 

And bade the goblet pass ; 

In their beards the red wine glistened 
Like dew-drops in the grass. 

They drank to the soul of Witlaf, 

They drank to Christ the Lord, 

And to each of the Twelve Apostles, 

Who had preached his holy word. 

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs 
Of the dismal days of yore, 

And as soon as the horn was empty 
They remembered one Saint more. 


And the reader droned from the pulpit, 
Like the murmur of many bees, 

The legend of good Saint Guthlac 
And Saint Basil's homilies ; 

fill the great bells of the convent, 

From their prison in the tower, 
Guthlac and Bartholomseus, 

Proclaimed the midnight hour. 

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney 
And the Abbot bowed his head, 

And the flamelets flapped and flickered, 
But the Abbot'was stark and dead. 

Yet still in his pallid fingers 
He clutched the golden bowl, 

In which, like a pearl dissolving, 

Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 

But not for this their revels 
The jovial monks forbore, 

For they cried, “ Fill high the goblet! 

We must drink to one Saint more !” 



O 


EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE. 



EAUTIFUL was the night. Behind the 
black wall of the forest, 

Tipping its summit with silver, arose the 
moon. On the river 

Fell here and there through the branches a tremu¬ 


lous gleam of the moonlight, 

Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and 
devious spirit. 


Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of 
the garden 

Poured out their souls in odors, that were their 
prayers and confessions 

Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent 
Carthusian. 

Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with 
shadows and night dews, 

Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the 
magical moonlight 

Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, 

As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade 
of the oak-trees, 

Passed she along the path to the edge of the mea¬ 
sureless prairie. 


Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies 


Gleaming and floating away in mingled anu infinite 
numbers. 

Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the 
heavens, 

Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel 
and worship, 

Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of 
that temple, 

As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, 
“ Upharsin.” 

And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and 
the fire-flies, 

Wandered alone, and she cried, “ 0 Gabriel! 0 my 
beloved! 

Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold 
thee ? 

Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not 
reach me ? 

Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path to the 
prairie ! 

Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the wood 
lands around me ! 

Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor. 

Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in 
thy slumbers. 













70 


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded 
about thee ?” 

Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoor¬ 
will sounded 

Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the 
neighboring thickets, 


Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into 
silence. 

“ Patience!” whispered the oaks from oracular cav¬ 
erns of darkness; 

And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, 
“ To-morrow !” 


+<>•- 


LITERARY FAME. 

As a specimen of Mr. Longfellow’s prose style we present the followin 
written when the poet was comparatively a young man. 


IE has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose 
pages he is continually recording illus¬ 
trious names. But, as often as a new 
name is written there, an old one disappears. Only 
a few stand in illuminated characters never to be 
effaced. These are the high nobility of Nature,— 
Lords of the Public Domain of Thought. Pos¬ 
terity shall never question their titles. But 
those, whose fame lives only in the indiscreet opinion 
of unwise men, must soon be as well forgotten as if 
they had never been. To this great oblivion must 
most men come. It is better, therefore, that they 
should soon make up their minds to this: well know¬ 
ing that, as their bodies must ere long be resolved 
into dust again, and their graves tell no tales of them, 
so must their names likewise be utterly forgotten, and 
their most cherished thoughts, purposes, and opinions 
have no longer an individual being among men; but 
be resolved and incorporated into the universe of 
thought. 

Yes, it is better that men should soon make up 
their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or 
within them, for some higher motive, in what they 
do, than the approbation of men, which is Fame ; 
namely, their duty; that they should be constantly 
and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of 
effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself. 
Difficult must this indeed be, in our imperfection; 
impossible, perhaps, to achieve it wholly. Yet the 
resolute, the indomitable will of man can achieve 
much,—at times even this victory over himself; being 
persuaded that fame comes only when deserved, and 
then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny. 

It has become a common saying, that men of genius 
are always in advance of their age; which is true. 
There is something equally true, yet not so common ; 
namely, that, of these men of genius, the best and 
bravest are in advance not only of their own age, but 
of every age. As the German prose-poet says, every 


extract from his “Hyperion,*' 

possible future is behind them. We cannot suppose 
that a period of time will ever arrive, when the world, 
or any considerable portion of it, shall have come up 
abreast with these great minds, so as fully to compre¬ 
hend them. 

And, oh ! how majestically they walk in history! 
some like the sun, “ with all his traveling glories 
round him;” others wrapped in gloom, yet glorious 
as a night with stars. Through the else silent dark¬ 
ness of the past, the spirit hears their slow and solemn 
footsteps. Onward they pass, like those hoary elders 
seen in the sublime vision of an earthly paradise, 
attendant angels bearing golden lights before them, 
and, above and behind, the whole air painted with 
seven listed colors, as from the trail of pencils! 

And yet, on earth, these men were not happy,— 
not all happy, in the outward circumstance of theii 
lives. They were in want, and in pain, and familiar 
with prison-bars, and the damp, weeping walls of 
dungeons. Oh, I have looked with wonder upon 
those who, in sorrow and privation, and bodily dis¬ 
comfort, and sickness, which is the shadow of death, 
have worked right on to the accomplishment of their 
great purposes; toiling much, enduring much, ful¬ 
filling much ;—and then, with shattered nerves, and 
sinews all unstrung, have laid themselves down in the 
grave, and slept the sleep of death,—and the world 
talks of them, while they sleep ! 

It would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings had 
but sanctified them ! As if the death-angel, in pass¬ 
ing, had touched them with the hem of his garment, 
and made them holy ! As if the hand of disease had 
been stretched out over them only to make the sign 
of the cross upon their souls! And as in the sun’s 
eclipse we can behold the great stars shining in the 
heavens, so in this life-eclipse have these men beheld 
the lights of the great eternity, burning solemnly and 
forever! 














RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

THE LIBERATOR OF AMERICAN LITERATURE. 

O classify Emerson is a matter of no small difficulty. He was a 
philosopher, lie was an essayist, he was a poet—all three so eminently 
that scarcely two of his friends would agree to which class he most 
belonged. Oliver Wendell Holmes asks: 

Where in the realm of thought whose air is song 
Does he the Buddha of the west belong ? 

He seems a winged Franklin sweetly wise, 

Born to unlock the secret of the skies.” 

But whatever he did was done with a poetic touch. Philosophy, essay or song, it 
was all pregnant with the spirit of poetry. Whatever else he was Emerson was 
pre-eminently a poet. It was with this golden key that he unlocked the chambers of 
original thought, that liberated American letters. 

Until Emerson came, American authors had little independence. James Russell 
Lowell declares, “ We were socially and intellectually bound to English thought, 
until Emerson cut the cable and gave us a chance at the dangers and glories of blue 
waters. He was our first optimistic writer. Before his day, Puritan theology had 
seen in man only a vile nature and considered his instincts for beauty and pleasure, 
proofs of his total depravity.” Under such conditions as these, the imagination was 
fettered and wholesome literature was impossible. As a reaction against this Puri¬ 
tan austerity came UnitaTianism, which aimed to establish the dignity of man, and 
out of this came the further growth of the idealism or transcendentalism of Emer¬ 
son. It was this idea and these aspirations of the new theology that Emerson con¬ 
verted into literature. The indirect influence of his example on the writings of 
Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier and Lowell, and its direct influence on Thoreau, 
Hawthorne, Chas. A. Dana, Margaret Fuller, G. W. Curtis and others, formed the 
very foundation for the beautiful structure of our representative American literature. 

Emerson was profoundly a thinker who pondered the relation of man to God 
and to the universe. He conceived and taught the noblest ideals of virtue and a 
spiritual life. The profound study which Emerson devoted to his themes and his 
philosophic cast of mind made him a writer for scholars. He was a prophet who, 
without argument, announced truths which, by intuition, he seems to have peicei\ed , 
but the thought is often so shadowy that the ordinary reader fails to catch it. For 

. 71 




























72 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


this reason he will never be like Longfellow or Whittier, a favorite with the masses. 
Let it not be understood, however, that all of Emerson’s writings are heavy or 
shadowy or difficult to understand. On the contrary, some of his poems are of a 
popular character and are easy of comprehension. For instance, “ The Hymn,” 
sung at the completion of the Concord Monument in 1836, was on every one’s lips 
at the time of the Centennial celebration, in 1876. His optimistic spirit is also beau¬ 
tifully and clearly expressed in the following stanza of his “ Voluntaries 

So nigh is grandeur to our dust, 

So near is God to man, 

When duty whispers low, “ Thou must,” 

The youth replies, “ I can.” 

These are but two instances of many that may be cited. No author is, perhaps, 
more enjoyed by those who understand him. He was a master of language. He 
never used the wrong word. His sentences are models. But he was not a logical 
or methodical writer. Every sentence stands by itself. His paragraphs might be 
arranged almost at random without essential loss to the essays. His philosophy con¬ 
sists largely in an array of golden sayings full of vital suggestions to help men 
make the best and most of themselves. He had no compact system of philosophy. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson was born in Boston, May 25,1803, within “ A kite-string 
of the birth place of Benjamin Franklin” with whom he is frequently compared. 
The likeness, however, consists only in the fact that they were both decidedly repre¬ 
sentative Americans of a decidedly different type. Franklin was prose, Emerson 
poetry; Franklin common sense, real; Emerson imaginative, ideal. In these oppo- 
site respects they both were equally representative of the highest type. Both were 
hopeful, kindly and shrewd. Both equally powerful in making, training and guid¬ 
ing the American people. 

In his eighth year young Emerson was sent to a grammar school, where he 
made such rapid progress, that he was soon able to enter a higher department 
known as a Latin school. His first attempts at writing were not the dull efforts 
of a school boy ; but original poems which he read with real taste and feeling. 
He completed his course and graduated from Harvard College at eighteen. It is 
said that he was dull in mathematics and not above the average in his class in 
general standing; but he was widely read in literature, which put him far in 
advance, perhaps, of any young man of his age. After graduating, lie taught school 
for five years in connection with his brother; but in 1825, gave it up for the minis¬ 
try. For a time he was pastor of a Unitarian Congregation in Boston; but his inde¬ 
pendent views were not in accordance with the doctrine of his church, therefore, he 
resigned in 1835, and retired to Concord, where he purchased a home near the 
spot on which the first battle of the Revolution was fought in 1775, which he 
commemorated in his own verse:— 

“ There first the embattled farmers stood, 

And fired the shot heard round the world.” 

In this city, Emerson resided until the day of his death, which occurred in Con¬ 
cord, April 27, 1882, in the seventy-eighth year of his age. 





RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


73 


, ^ p oncor ^ that the poet and essayist, as the prophet of the advanced 

loug 1 o iis age, gathered around him those leading spirits who were dissatisfied 
With the selhshuess and shallowness of existing society, and, who had been led by 
im to ream of ail ideal condition in which all should live as one family. Out of 

^i 1 ^ iew , e ^ amous “ Brook harm Community.” This was not an original idea 
o meison s, however. Coleridge and Southey, of England, had thought of found¬ 
ing such a society in Pennsylvania, on the Susquehanna River. Emerson regarded 
this community of interests as the clear teachings of Jesus Christ; and, to put into 
piactical operation this idea, a farm of about tw T o hundred acres was bought at 
Koxbury, Mass., and a stock company was formed under the title of “The Brook 
Earm Institution of Agriculture and Education.” About seventy members joined 



HOME OP RALPH WALDO EMERSON, CONCORD, MASS. 


in the enterprise. The principle of the organization was cooperative, the members 
sharing the profits. Nathaniel Hawthorne, the greatest of romancers, Chas. A. 
Dana, of the New York Sun, George W. Curtis, of Harper’s Monthly, Henry D. 
Thoreau, the poet naturalist, Amos Bronson Alcott, the transcendental dreamer and 
writer of strange shadowy sayings, and Margaret Fuller, the most learned woman of 
her age, were prominent members who removed to live on the farm. It is said that 
Emerson, himself, never really lived there; but was a member and frequent visitor, 
as were other prominent scholars of the same school. The project was a failure. 
After five years of experience, some of the houses were destroyed by fire, the enter¬ 
prise given up, and the membership scattered. 













74 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


But the Brook Farm served its purpose in literature by bringing together some 
of the best intellects in America, engaging them for five years in a common course 
of study, and stimulating a commerce of ideas. The breaking up of the community 
was better, perhaps, than its success would have been. It dispersed and scattered 
abroad the advanced thoughts of Emerson, and the doctrine of the society into every 
profession. Instead of being confined to the little paper, “The Dial,” (which was 
the organ of the society) its literature was transferred into a number of widely cir¬ 
culated national mediums. 

Thus, it will be seen how Emerson, the “Sage of Concord,” gathered around him 
jud dominated, by his charming personality, his powerful mind, and his wholesome 
influence, some of the brightest minds that have figured in American literature; 
and how, through them, as well as his own writings, he has done so much, not only 
to lay the foundation of a new literature, but to mould and shape leading minds for 
generations to come. The Brook Farm idea was the uppermost thought in Edward 
Bellamy’s famous novel, “Looking Backward,” which created such a sensation in 
the reading world a few years since. The progressive thought of Emerson was 
father to the so-called “New Theology,” or “Higher Criticism,” of modern scholars 
and theologians. It is, perhaps, for the influence which Emerson has exerted, rather 
than his own works, that the literature of America is mostly indebted to him. It 
was 

American letters than the city of New York. 

The charm of Emerson’s personality has already been referred to,—and it is not 
strange that it should have been so great. His manhood, no less than his genius 
was worthy of admiration and of reverence. His life corresponded with his brave, 
cheerful and steadfast teachings. He “practiced what he preached.” His manners 
were so gentle, his nature so transparent, and his life so singularly pure and happy, 
that he was called, while he lived, “the good and great Emerson;” and, since his 
death, the memory of his life and manly example are among the cherished posses¬ 
sions of our literature. 

The reverence of his literary associates was little less than worship. Amos Bron¬ 
son Alcott,—father of the authoress, Louisa M. Alcott,—one of the Brook Farm 
members, though himself a profound scholar and several years Emerson’s senior, 
declared that it would have been his great misfortune to have lived without knowing 
Emerson, whom he styled, “The magic minstrel and speaker! whose rhetoric, voiced 
as by organ stops, delivers the sentiment from his breast in cadences peculiar to 
himself; now hurling it forth on the ear, echoing them; then,—as his mood and 
matter invite it—dying like 


through his efforts that the village of Concord has been made more famous in 


Music of mild lutes 
Or silver coated flutes. 


Thy fellowship was my culture, noble friend: 

By the hand thou took’st me, and did’st condescend 
To bring me straightway into thy fair guild ; 

And life-long hath it been high compliment 




F 


. such is the rhapsodist’s cunning in its structure and delivery.” 

Refer ring to his association with Emerson, the same writer acknowledges in a 
poem, written after the sage’s death: 











RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


75 


By that to have been known, and thy friend styled, 
Given to rare thought and to good learning bent; 
Whilst in my straits an angel on me smiled. 

Permit me, then, thus honored, still to be 
A scholar in thy university. 


HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONUMENT, 1836. 


Y the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled, 
Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept; 

Alike the concjueror silent sleeps; 

And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 


On this green bank, by this soft stream, 
We set to day a votive stone, 

That memory may their deed redeem 
When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit that made those heroes dare 
To die or leave their children free, 

Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 



-♦O*- 


THE EHODORA. 


N May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 
I found the fresh Bhodora in the.woods, 
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, 
To please the desert and the sluggish brook ; 
The purple petals fallen in the pool 

Made the black waters with their beauty gay; 
Young Raphael might covet such a school; 

The lively show beguiled me from my way. 
Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why 



This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, 

Dear tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing, 
Then beauty is its own excuse for being. 

Why, thou wert there, 0, rival of the rose! 

I never thought to ask, I never knew, 

But in my simple ignorance suppose 
The selfsame Power that brought me there, brought 
you. 




THE TRUE HERO. 

AN EXTRACT FROM “VOLUNTARIES.” 

The following story is told of the manner in which the poem, “ Voluntaries,’’ obtained its title. In 1863, 
Mr. Emerson came to Boston and took a room in the Parker House, bringing with him the unfinished sketch 
of a few verses which he wished Mr. Fields, his publisher, to hear. He drew a small table to the centre 
of the room and read aloud the lines he proposed giving to the press. They were written on separate slips 
of paper which were flying loosely about the room. (Mr. Emerson frequently wrote in such independent 
paragraphs, that many of his poems and essays might be rearranged without doing them serious violence.) 
The question arose as to title of the verses read, when Mr. Fields suggested “ Voluntaires,” which was cor 
dially accepted by Mr. Emerson. 



WELL for the fortunate soul 
Which Music’s wings unfold, 
Stealing away the memory 
Of sorrows new and old ! 

Yet happier he whose inward sight, 
Stayed on his subtle thought, 

Shuts his sense on toys of time, 

To vacant bosoms brought; 

But best befriended of the God 
He who, in evil times, 

Warned by an inward voice, 


Heeds not the darkness and the dread, 
Biding by his rule and choice, 

Telling only the fiery thread, 

Leading over heroic ground 
Walled with immortal terror round, 

To the aim which him allures, 

And the sweet heaven his deed secures. 
Peril around all else appalling, 

Cannon in front and leaden rain, 

Him duty through the clarion calling 
To the van called not in vain. 




























76 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


Stainless soldier on the walls, 

Knowing this,—and knows no more,— 
Whoever fights, whoever falls, 

Justice conquers evermore, 

Justice after as before ;— 

And he who battles on her side, 

God, though he were ten times slain, 
Crowns him victor glorified, 

Victor over death and pain 


Forever: but his erring foe, 
Self-assured that he prevails, 

Looks from his victim lying low, 
And sees aloft the red right arm 
Redress the eternal scales. 

He, the poor for whom angels foil, 
Blind with pride and fooled by hate, 
Writhes within the dragon coil, 
Reserved to a speechless fate. 


- - •<>♦ - — 

MOUNTAIN AND SQUIRREL. 


HE mountain and the squirrel 
Had a quarrel; 

And the former called the latter u Little 

png.” 

Bun replied: 

“ You are doubtless very big; 

But all sorts of things and weather 
Must be taken in together, 

To make up a year 
And a sphere. 


And I think it no disgrace 
To occupy my place. 

If I’m not so large as you, 

You are not so small as I, 

And not half so spry. 

I’ll not deny you make 
A very pretty squirrel track; 

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; 
If I cannot carry forests on my back, 
Neither can you crack a nut.” 





THE SNOW STORM. 


NNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky 
Arrives the snow, and driving o’er the 

Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air 
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, 
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end. 

The sled and traveler stopp’d, the courier’s feet 
Delay’d, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
Around the radiant fire-place, enclosed 
In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Come see the north-wind’s masonry. 

Out of an unseen quarry evermore 
Furnish’d with tile, the fierce artificer 
Curves his white bastions with projected roof 
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. 


Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly 
On coop or kennel be hangs Parian wreaths; 

A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; 

Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall, 
Maugre the farmer’s sighs, and at the gate 
A tapering turret overtops the work. 

And when his hours are number’d, and the worl 
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, 

Leaves, when the sun appears, astonish’d Art 
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, 
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work, 

The frolic architecture of the snow. 


-•<>♦— 

THE PROBLEM. 


LIKE a church, I like a cowl, 

I love a prophet of the soul, 

And on my heart monastic aisles 
Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles, 
Yet not for all his faith can see 
Would I that cowled churchman be. 

Why should the vest on him allure, 

Which I could not on me endure ? 

Not from a vain or shallow thought 
His awful Jove young Phidias brought; 

Never from lips of cunning fell 


The thrilling Delphic oracle; 

Out from the heart of nature roll’d 
The burdens of the Bible old ; 

The litanies of nations came, 

Like the volcano’s tongue of flame, 

Up from the burning core below,— 

The canticles of love and wo. 

The hand that rounded Peter’s dome, 

And groin’d the aisles of Christian Rome, 
Wrought in a sad sincerity. 

Himself from God he could not free; 
































A. 5r6nsofsAl<?tfc 


urmture . 

Tr°v) V/aW en 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON AND HIS BROOK FARM FRIENDS 





























































































RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


77 


He builded better than he knew, 

The conscious stone to beauty grew. 

Know’st thou what wove yon wood-bird’s nest 
Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? 

Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, 

Painting with morn each annual cell? 

Or how the sacred pine tree adds 
To her old leaves new myriads ? 

Such and so grew these holy piles, 

Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 

Earth proudly wears the Parthenon 
As the best gem upon her zone; 

And morning opes with haste her lids 
To gaze upon the Pyramids; 

O’er England's Abbeys bends the sky 
As on its friends with kindred eye; 

For, out of Thought’s interior sphere 
These wonders rose to upper air, 

And nature gladly gave them place, 

Adopted them into her race, 

And granted them an equal date 
With Andes and with Ararat. 

These temples grew as grows the grass, 

Art might obey but not surpass. 

The passive Master lent his hand 


• To the vast Soul that o’er him plann’d, 

And the same power that rear’d the shrine, 
Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 

Ever the fiery Pentecost 
Girds with one flame the countless host, 
Trances the heart through chanting choirs, 
And through the priest the mind inspires. 

The word unto the prophet spoken, 

Was writ on tables yet unbroken; 

The word by seers or sybils told 
In groves of oak or fanes of gold, 

Still floats upon the morning wind, 

Still whispers to the willing mind. 

One accent of the Holy Ghost 
The heedless world hath never lost. 

I know what say the Fathers wise,— 

The book itself before me lies,— 

Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, 

And he who blent both in his line, 

The younger Golden Lips or mines, 

Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines; 

His words are music in my ear, 

I see his cowled portrait dear. 

And yet, for all his faith could see, 

I would not the good bishop be. 


TRAVELING. 


HAVE no churlish objection to the cir¬ 
cumnavigation of the globe, for the pur¬ 
poses of art, of study, and benevolence, 
so that the man is first domesticated, or does not 
go abroad with the hope of finding somewhat greater 
than he knows. He who travels to be amused, or 
to get somewhat which he does not carry, travels 
away from himself, and grows old even in youth 
among old things. In Thebes, in Palmyra, his will 
and mind have become old and dilapidated as they. 
He carries ruins to ruins. 

Traveling is a fool’s paradise. We owe to our 
first journeys the discovery that place is nothing. At 
home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be in¬ 
toxicated with beauty and lose my sadness. I pack 
my trunk, embrace my friends, and embark on the 
sea, and at last wake up at Naples, and there beside 
me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identi¬ 
cal that I fled from. I seek the Vatican and the 
palaces. I affect to be intoxicated with sights and 
suggestions; but I am not intoxicated. My giant 
goes with me wherever I go. 

But the rage of traveling is itself only a symptom 
of a deeper unsoundness affecting the whole intel¬ 


lectual action. The intellect is vagabond, and the 
universal system of education fosters restlessness. 
Our minds travel when our bodies are forced to stay 
at home. We imitate; and what is imitation but 
the traveling of the mind ? Our houses are built 
with foreign taste ; our shelves are garnished with 
foreign ornaments; our opinions, our tastes, our 
whole minds, lean to and follow the past and the dis¬ 
tant as the eyes of a maid follow her mistress. The 
soul created the arts wherever they have flourished. 
It was in his own mind that the artist sought his 
model. It was an application of his own thought to 
the thing to be done and the conditions to be ob- 
served. And wdiy need we copy the Doric or the 
Gothic model? Beauty, convenience, grandeur of 
thought and quaint expression are as near to us as to 
any, and if the American artist will study with hope 
and love the precise thing to be done by him, con¬ 
sidering the climate, the soil, the length of the day, 
the wants of the people, the habit and form of 
the government, he will create a house in which all 
these will find themselves fitted, and taste and senti¬ 
ment will be satisfied also. 















78 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


THE COMPENSATION OF CALAMITY. 


E cannot part with our friends. We can¬ 
not let our angels go. We do not see 
that they only go out that archangels 
may come in. We are idolaters of the old. We 
do not believe in the riches of the soul, in its proper 
eternity and omnipresence. We do not believe 
there is any force in to-day to rival or recreate that 
beautiful yesterday. We linger in the ruins of 
the old tent, where once we had bread and shelter 
and organs, nor believe that the spirit can feed, cover 
and nerve us again. We cannot find aught so dear, 
so sweet, so graceful. But we sit and weep in vain. 
The voice of the Almighty saith, “ Up and onward 
for evermore!” We cannot stay amid the ruins, 
neither will we rely on the new ; and so we walk ever 

with reverted eyes, like those monsters w T ho look 

« 

backwards. 

And yet the compensations of calamity are made 
apparent to the understanding also, after long inter¬ 
vals of time. A fever, a mutilation, a cruel disap¬ 



pointment, a loss of wealth, a loss of friends, seems at 
the moment unpaid loss, and unpayable. But the 
sure years reveal the deep remedial force that under¬ 
lies all facts. The death of a dear friend, wife, 
brother, lover, which seemed nothing but privation, 
somewhat later assumes the aspect of a guide or 
genius; for it commonly operates revolutions in our 
way of life, terminates an epoch of infancy or of 
youth which was waiting to be closed ; breaks up a 
wonted occupation, or a household, or style of living, 
and allows the formation of new ones more friendly 
to the growth of character. It permits or constrains 
the formation of new acquaintances, and the reception 
of new influences that prove of the first importance 
to the next years ; and the man or woman who would 
have? remained a sunny garden-flower, with no room 
for its roots and too much sunshine for its head, by 
the falling of the walls and the neglect of the 
gardener, is made the banian of the forest, yielding 
shade and fruit to wide neighborhoods of men. 


■♦O*- 


SELF-RELIANCE. 



NSIST on yourself; never imitate. Your 
own gift you can present every moment 
with the cumulative force of a whole 
life’s cultivation ; but of the adopted talent of 
another you have only an extemporaneous, half 
possession. That which each can do best, none but 
his Maker can teach him. No man yet knows 
what it is, nor can, till that person has exhibited it. 
Where is the master who could have taught Shaks- 
peare ? Where is the master who could have in¬ 


structed Franklin, or Washington, or Bacon or 
Newton? Every great man is a unique. The 
Scipionism of Scipio is precisely that part he could 
not borrow. If anybody will tell me whom the 
great man imitates in the original crisis when he per¬ 
forms a great act, I will tell him who else than him¬ 
self can teach him. Shakspeare will never be made 
by the study of Shakspeare. Do that which is as¬ 
signed thee, and thou canst not hope too much or 
dare too much. 


FROM “NATURE.” 



go into solitude a man needs to retire as 
much from his chamber as from society. 
I am not solitary whilst I read and write, 
though nobody is with me. But if a man would be 
alone, let him look at the stars. The rays that come 
from those heavenly worlds will separate between 
him and vulgar things. One might think the atmos¬ 
phere was made transparent with this design, to 
give man, in the heavenly bodies, the perpetual pres¬ 


ence of the sublime. Seen in the streets of cities, 
how great they are ! 

If the stars should appear one night in a thousand 
years, how would men believe and adore and preserve 
for many generations the remembrance of the city of 
God which had been shown ! But every night come 
out these preachers of beauty and light the universe 
with their admonishing smile. 

The stars awaken a certain reverence, because, 

































RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


79 


though always present, they are always inaccessible; 
but all natural objects make kindred impression when 
the mind is open to their influence. Nature never 
wears a mean appearance. Neither does the wisest 
man extort all her secrets and lose his curiosity by 
finding out all her perfection. Nature never became 
a toy to a wise spirit. The flowers, the animals, the 
mountains reflected all the wisdom of his best hour 
as much as they had delighted the simplicity of his 
childhood. 

When we speak of Nature in this manner, we have 
a distinct but most poetical sense in the mind. We 
mean the integrity of impression made by manifold 
Nature objects. It is this which distinguishes the 
stick of timber of the wood-cutter from the tree of 
the poet. The charming landscape which I saw this 
morning is indubitably made up of some twenty or 
thirty farms. Miller owns this field, Locke that, and 
Manning the woodland beypnd. But none of them 
owns the landscape. There is a property in the hori¬ 
zon which no man has but he whose eye can integrate 
all the parts—that is, the poet. This is the best 
part of these men’s farms, yet to this their land-deeds 
give them no title. 

To speak truly, few adult persons can see Nature. 
Most persons do not see the sun. At least they have 
a very superficial seeing. The sun illuminates only 
the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and the 
heart of the child. The lover of Nature is he whose 
inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to 
each other—who has retained the spirit of infancy 
even into the era of manhood. His intercourse with 
heaven and earth becomes part of his daily food. In 
the presence of Nature a wild delight runs through 
the man in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, He 
is my creature, and, maugre all his impertinent griefs, 
he shall be glad with me. Not the sun nor the sum¬ 
mer alone, but every hour and season, yields its tribute 
of delight; for every hour and change corresponds 
to and authorizes a different state of the mind, from 
breathless noon to grimmest midnight. Nature is a 


setting that fits equally well a comic or a mourning 
piece. In good health the air is a cordial of incredi¬ 
ble virtue. Crossing a bare common in snow-puddles 
at twilight under a clouded sky, without having in 
my thoughts any occurrence of special good-fortune, 
I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. Almost I fear 
to think how glad I am. In the woods, too, a man 
casts off his years as the snake his slough, and at 
what period soever of his life is always a child. In 
the woods is perpetual youth. Within these planta¬ 
tions of God a decorum and sanctity reign, a peren¬ 
nial festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he 
should tire of them in a thousand years. In the 
woods we return to reason and faith. There I feel 
that nothing can befall me in life—no disgrace, no 
calamity (leaving me my eyes)—which Nature can¬ 
not repair. * * * * * * 

The greatest delight which the fields and woods 
minister is the suggestion of an occult relation be¬ 
tween man and the vegetable. I am not alone and 
unacknowledged. They nod to me and I to them. 
The waving of the boughs in the storm is new to me 
and old. 

It takes me by surprise, and yet is not unknown. 
Its effect is like that of a higher thought or a better 
emotion coming over me when I deemed I was think¬ 
ing justly or doing right. 

Yet it is certain that the power to produce this de¬ 
light does not reside in Nature, but in man or in t 
harmony of both. It is necessary to use these pleas¬ 
ures with great temperance. For Nature is not al¬ 
ways tricked in holiday attire, but the same scene 
which yesterday breathed perfume and glittered as 
for the frolic of the nymphs is overspread with mel¬ 
ancholy to-day. Nature always wears the colors of 
the spirit. To a man laboring under calamity the 
heat of his own fire hath sadness in it. Then there 
is a kind of contempt of the landscape felt by him 
who has just lost by death a dear friend. The sky 
is less grand as it shuts down over less worth in the 
population. 





JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

“ THE POET OF FREEDOM.” 

N A solitary farm house near Haverhill, Massachusetts, in the valley 
of the Merrimac, on the 17th day of December, 1807, John Green- 
leaf Whittier was born. Within the same town, and Amesbury, 
nearby, this kind and gentle man, whom all the world delights to 
honor for his simple and beautiful heart-songs, spent most of his life, 
dying at the ripe old age of nearly eighty-five, in Danvers, Massa¬ 
chusetts, September 7th, 1892. The only distinguishing features about his ancestors 
were that Tlios. Whittier settled at Haverhill in 1647, and brought with him from 
Newberry the first hive of bees in the settlement, that they were all sturdy Quakers, 
lived simply, were friendly and freedom loving. The early surroundings of the 
farmer boy were simple and frugal. He has pictured them for us in his masterpiece, 
“Snowbound.” Poverty, the necessity of laboring upon the farm, the influence of 
Quaker traditions, his busy life, all conspired against his liberal education and literary 
culture. This limitation of knowledge is, however, at once to the masses his charm, 
and, to scholars, his one defect. It has led him to write, as no other poet could, 
upon the dear simplicity of New England farm life. He has written from the heart 
and not from the head ; he has composed popular pastorals, not hymns of culture. 
Only such training as the district schools afforded, with a couple of years at Haver¬ 
hill Academy comprised his advantages in education. 

In referring to this alma mater in after years, under the spell of his muse, the 
poet thus writes:— 

“ Still sits the school house by the road, 

A ragged beggar sunning ; 

Around it still the sumachs grow 
And black-berry vines are running. 

Within, the master’s desk is seen, 

Deep-scarred by raps official; 

The warping floor, the battered seats, 

The jack-knife carved initial.” 

It was natural for Whittier to become the poet of that combination of which 
Garrison was the apostle, and Phillips and Sumner the orators. His early poems were 
published by Garrison in his paper, “ The Free Press,” the first one when Whittier 

^ 80 

































JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


81 


was nineteen years of age and Garrison himself little more than a boy. The farmer 
lad was elated when he found the verses which he had so timidly submitted in print 
with a friendly comment from the editor and a request for more. Garrison even 
visited Whittier s parents and urged the importance of giving him a finished educa¬ 
tion. ihus he fell early under the spell of the great abolitionist and threw himself 
with all the ardor of his nature into the movement. His poems against slavery and 
disunion have a ringing zeal worthy of a Cromwell. “ They are,” declares one 
writer, “ like the sound of the trumpets blown before the walls of Jericho.” 

As a Quaker Whittier could not have been otherwise than an abolitionist, for that 
denomination had long since abolished slavery within its own communion. Most 



his support of the Fugitive Slave Law. Webster was right from the standpoint of 
law and the Constitution, but Whittier argued from the standpoint of human right 
and liberty. “ Barbara Frietchie,”—while it is pronounced purely a fiction, as 
is also his poem about John Brown kissing the Negro baby on his way to the gal¬ 
lows,—is perhaps the most widely quoted of his famous war poems. 

Whittier also wrote extensively on subjects relating to New England history, 
witchcraft and colonial traditions. This group includes many of his best ballads, 
which have done in verse for colonial romance what Hawthorne did in prose in his 
“Twice-Told Tales” and “Scarlet Letter.” It is these poems that have entitled 
Whittier to be called “ the greatest of American ballad writers.” Among them are 
to be found “Mabel Martin,” “The Witch of Wenham,” “Marguerite” and 
“Skipper Ireson’s Bide.” But it is perhaps in the third department of his writings, 
namely, rural tales and idyls, that the poet is most widely known. These pastoral 
poems contain the very heart and soul of New England. They are faithful and 
loving pictures of humble life, simple and peaceful in their subject and in their 
style. The masterpieces of this class are “ Snowbound,” “ Maud Muller,” “ The 
Barefoot Boy,” “Among the Hills,” “ Telling the Bees,” etc. The relation of these 
simple experiences of homely character has carried him to the hearts of the people 
and made him, next to Longfellow, the most popular of American poets. There is 
a pleasure and a satisfaction in the freshness of Whittier’s homely words and home- 
spun phrases, which we seek in vain in the polished art of cultivated masters. As 
a poet of nature he has painted the landscapes of New England as Bryant has the 
larger features of the continent. 

Whittier was never married and aside from a few exquisite verses he has given 
the public no clew to the romance of his youth. His home was presided over for 
many years by his sister Elizabeth, a most lovely and talented woman, for whom he 
cherished the deepest affection, and he has written nothing more touching than his 
tribute to her memory in “ Snowbound.” The poet was shy and diffident among 
strangers and in formal society, but among his friends genial and delightful, with a 
fund of gentle and delicate humor which gave his conversation a great charm. 

Aside from his work as a poet Whittier wrote considerable prose. His first volume 
was “ Legends of New England,” published in 1831, consisting of prose and verse. 
Subsequent prose publications consisted of contributions to the slave controversy, 


6 P H 



82 


JOHN GEEENLEAF WHITTIER. 

biographical sketches of English and American reformers, studies of scenery and 
folk-lore of the Merrimac valley. Those of greatest literary interest were the 
“ Supernaturalisms of New England,” (1847,) and “ Literary Recreations and 
Miscellanies,” (1852.) J 

In 1836 Whittier became secretary of the American Anti-Slavery Society, and 
he was all his life interested in public affairs, and wrote much for newspapers and 
periodicals. In 1838 he began to edit the “ Pennsylvania Freeman ” in Philadel¬ 
phia, but in the following year his press was destroyed and his office burned by a 
pro-slavery mob, and he returned to New England, devoting the larger part of his 
life, aside from his anti-slavery political writings, to embalming its history and 
legends in his literature, and so completely has it been done by him it has been 
declared : “ If every other record of the early history and life of New England 
were lost the story could be constructed again from the pages of Whittier. Traits, 
habits, facts, traditions, incidents—he holds a torch to the dark places and illumines 
them every one.” 

Mr. Whittier, perhaps, is the most peculiarly American poet of any that our country 
has produced. The woods and waterfowl of Bryant belong as much to one land 
as another ; and all the rest of our singers—Emerson, Longfellow, Lowell, and their 
brethren—with the single exception of Joaquin Miller, might as well have been born 
in the land of Shakespeare, Milton and Byron as their own. But Whittier is 
entirely a poet of his own soil. All through his verse we see the elements that 
created it, and it is interesting to trace his simple life, throughout, in his verses from 
the time, when like that urchin with whom he asserts brotherhood, and who has won 
all affections, he ate his 

* * * “ milk and bread, 

Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 

On the door-stone gray and rude. 

O’er me, like a regal tent, 

Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, 

Purple curtains fringed with gold 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold 

and, when a little older his fancy dwelt upon the adventures of Clialkley—as 

“ Following my plough by Merrimac’s green shore 
His simple record I have pondered o’er 
With deep and quiet joy.” 

In these reveries, “ The Barefoot Boy ” and others, thousands of his countrymen 
have lived over their lives again. Every thing he wrote, to the New Englander has 
a sweet, warm familiar life about it. To them his writings are familiar photo¬ 
graphs, but they are also treasury houses of facts over which the future antiquarian 
will pour and gather all the close details of the phase of civilization that they give. 

The old Whittier homestead at Amesbury is now in charge of Mrs. Pickard, a 
neice of the poet. She has recently made certain changes in the house; but this 
has been done so wisely and cautiously that if the place some day becomes a shrine 
•—as it doubtless will—the restoration of the old estate will be a simple matter. The 
library is left quite undisturbed, just as it was when Whittier died. 







JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


83 


MY PLAYMATE. 



HE pines were dark on Ramoth TIill, 
Their song was soft and low; 

The blossoms in the sweet May wind 
Were falling like the snow. 


The wild grapes wait us by the brook, 

The brown nuts on the hill, 

And still the May-day flowers make sweet 
The woods of Eollymill. 


The blossoms drifted at our feet, 
The orchard birds sang clear; 
The sweetest and the saddest day 
It seemed of all the year, 


The lilies blossom in the pond, 

The birds build in the tree, 

The dark pines sing on Ramoth Hill 
The slow son" of the sea. 


For more to me than birds or flowers, 
My playmate left her home, 

And took with her the laughing spring, 
The music and the bloom. 

She kissed the lips of kith and kin, 

She laid her hand in mine: 

What more could ask the bashful boy 
Who fed her father’s kine ? 


I wonder if she thinks of them, 
And how the old time seems,— 
If ever the pines of Ramoth wood 
Are sounding in her dreams. 

I see her face, I hear her voice; 

Does she remember mine ? 

And what to her is now the boy 
Who fed her father’s kine? 


She left us in the bloom of May: 

The constant years told o’er 
The seasons with as sweet May morns, 
But she came back no more. 


What cares she that the orioles build 
For other eyes than ours,— 

That other hands with nuts are filled. 
And other laps with flowers? 


I walk with noiseless feet the round 
Of uneventful years; 

Still o’er and o’er I sow the Spring 
And reap the Autumn ears. 

She lives where all the golden year 
Her summer roses blow ; 

The dusky children of the sun 
Before her come and go. 

There haply with her jeweled hands 
She smooths her silken gown,— 

No more the homespun lap wherein 
I shook the walnuts down. 


0 playmate in the golden time 1 
Our mossy seat is green, 

Its fringing violets blossom yet, 

The old trees o’er it lean. 

The winds so sweet with birch and fern 
A sweeter memory blow ; 

And there in spring the veeries sing 
The song of long ago. 

And still the pines of Ramoth wood 
Are moaning like the sea,— 

The moaning of the sea of change 
Between myself and thee ! 


-+ 0 +- 


THE CHANGELING. 



OR the fairest maid in Hampton 
They needed not to search, 
Who saw young Anna Favor 
Come walking into church,— 


Now the weariest of all mothers, 

The saddest two-years bride, 

She scowls in the face of her husband 
And spurns her child aside. 


Or bringing from the meadows, 
At set of harvest-day, 

The frolic of the blackbirds, 
The sweetness of the hay. 


“ Rake out the red coals, goodman, 

For there the child shall lie, 

Till the black witch comes to fetch her, 
And both up chimney fly. 












84 


JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


“ It’s never my own little daughter, 

It’s never my own,” she said; 

“ The witches have stolen my Anna, 

And left me an imp instead. 

“ 0, fair and sweet was my baby, 

Blue eyes, and ringlets of gold ; 

But this is ugly and wrinkled, 

Cross, and cunning, and old. 

“ I hate the touch of her fingers, 

I hate the feel of her skin ; 

It’s not the milk from my bosom, 

But my blood, that she sucks in. 

“ My face grows sharp with the torment; 
Look ! my arms are skin and bone !— 

Bake open the red coals, goodman, 

And the witch shall have her own. 

“ She’ll come when she hears it crying, 

In the shape of an owl or bat, 

And she’ll bring us our darling Anna 
In place of her screeching brat.” 

Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton, 

Laid his hand upon her head : 

“ Thy sorrow is great, 0 woman ! 

I sorrow with thee,” he said. 

“ The paths to trouble are many. 

And never but one sure way 

Leads out to the light beyond it: 

My poor wife, let us pray.” 

Then he said to the great All-Father, 
“Thy daughter is weak and blind ; 

Let her sight come back, and clothe her 
Once more in her right mind. 

“Lead her out of this evil shadow, 

Out of these fancies wild ; 

Let the holy love of the mother, 

Turn again to her child. 

“ Make her lips like the lips of Mary, 
Kissing her blessed Son ; 

Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus, 
Best on her little one. 

“ Comfort the soul of thy handmaid, 

Open her prison door, 

And thine shall be all the glory 
And praise forevermore.” 


Then into the face of its mother, 

The baby looked up and smiled ; 

And the cloud of her soul was lifted, 

And she knew her little child. 

A beam of slant west sunshine 
Made the wan face almost fair, 

Lit the blue eyes’ patient wonder 
And the rings of pale gold hair. 

She kissed it on lip and forehead, 

She kissed it on cheek and chin; 

And she bared her snow-white bosom 
To the lips so pale and*thin. 

0, fair on her bridal morning 

Was the maid who blushed and smiled 

But fairer to Ezra Dalton 

Looked the mother of his child. 

With more than a lover’s fondness 
He stooped to her worn young face 

And the nursing child and the mother 
He folded in one embrace. 

“ Now mount, and ride, my goodman 
As lovest thine own soul! 

Woe’s me if my wicked fancies 
Be the death of Goody Cole !” 

His horse he saddled and bridled, 

And into the night rode he,— 

Now through the great black woodland ; 
Now by the white-beaclied sea. 

He rode through the silent clearings, 

He came to the ferry wide, 

And t hrice he called to the boatman 
Asleep on the other side. 

He set his horse to the river, 

He swam to Newburg town, 

And he called up Justice Sewall 
In his nightcap and his gown. 

And the grave and worshipful justice, 
Upon whose soul be peace ! 

Set his name to the jailer’s warrant 
For Goody Cole’s release. 

Then through the night the hoof-beats 
Went sounding like a flail: 

And Goody Cole at cock crow 
Came forth from Ipswich jail. 









JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


85 


THE WORSHIP OF NATURE. 


HE ocean looketh up to heaven, 

As ’twere a living thing:; 

The homage of its waves is given 
In ceaseless worshiping. 

They kneel upon the sloping sand, 

As bends the human knee, 

A beautiful and tireless band, 

The priesthood of the sea! 

They pour the glittering treasures out 
Which in the deep have birth, 

And chant their awful hymns about 
The watching hills of earth. 

The green earth sends its incense up 
From every mountain-shrine, 

From every flower and dewy cup 
That greeteth the sunshine. 

The mists are lifted from the rills, 
Like the white wing of prayer ; 


They lean above the ancient hills, 

As doing homage there. 

The forest-tops are lowly cast 
O'er breezy hill and glen, 

As if a prayerful spirit pass’d 
On nature as on men. 

The clouds weep o’er the fallen world 
E’en as repentant love ; 

Ere, to the blessed breeze unfurl’d, 
They fade in light above. 

The sky is as a temple’s arch, 

The blue and wavy air 

Ts glorious with the spirit-march 
Of messengers at prayer. 

The gentle moon, the kindling sun, 
The many stars are given, 

As shrines to burn earth’s incense on. 
The altar-fires of Heaven ! 





THE 

LESSINGS on thee, little man, 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
With thy turned up pantaloons, 
And thy merry whistled tunes; 
With thy red lip, redder still 
Kissed by strawberries on the hill; 

With the sunshine on thy face, 

Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace 1 
From my heart I give thee joy; 

I was once a barefoot boy. 

Prince thou art—the grown-up man, 
Only is republican. 

Let the million-dollared ride ! 

Barefoot, trudging at his side, 

Thou hast more than he can buy, 

In the reach of ear and eye : 

Outward sunshine, inward joy, 

Blessings on the barefoot boy. 

O ! for boyhood’s painless play, 

Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools : 

Of the wild bee’s morning chase, 

Of the wild flower’s time and place, 
Flight of fowl, and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood ; 

How the tortoise bears his shell, 

How the woodchuck digs his cell, 

And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
ITow the robin feeds her young, 



BAREFOOT BOY. 

How the oriole’s nest is hung; 

Where the whitest lilies blow, 

Where the freshest berries grow, 

Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine: 

Of the black wasp’s cunning way, 

Mason of his walls of clay, 

And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans ! 

For, eschewing books and tasks, 

Nature answers all he asks; 

Hand in hand with her he walks, 

Part and parcel of her joy, 

Blessings on the barefoot boy. 

0 for boyhood s time of June, 

Crowding years in one brief moon, 

When all things I heard or saw, 

Me, their master, waited for! 

I was rich in flow T ers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees; 

For my sport the squirrel played, 

Plied the snouted mole his spade; 

For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone; 

Laughed the brook for my delight, 
Through the day, and through the night; 
Whispering at the garden wall, 

Talked with me from fall to fall; 

Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 











86 


JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


Mine, on bending orchard trees, 

Apples of Hesperides! 

Still, as my horizon grew, 

Larger grew my riches too, 

All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 

Fashioned for a barefoot boy! 

0, for festal dainties spread, 

Like my bowl of milk and bread, 

Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 

On the door-stone, gray and rude! 

O’er me like a regal tent, 

Cloudy ribbed, the sunset bent, 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 

Looped in many a wind-swung fold; 

While for music came the play 
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra ; 

And, to light the noisy choir, 

Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 

I was monarch ; pomp and joy 

MAUD 

AUD MULLER, on a summer’s day, 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 



Waited on the barefoot boy! 

Cheerily, then, my little man ! 

Live and laugh as boyhood can; 
Though the flinty slopes be hard. 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 

Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat; 

All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride, 

Lose the freedom of the sod, 

Like a colt’s for work be shod, 

Made to tread the mills of toil, 

Up and down in ceaseless moil, 

Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground ; 

Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah ! that thou couldst. know thy joy, 
Fire it passes, barefoot boy! 


-♦O*- 


MULLER. 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 

Of the singing birds and the humming bees; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whethe: 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather 

And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown, 

And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 


But, when she glanced to the far off town, 
White from its hill-slope looking down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing tilled her breast— 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 

For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid. 

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadow across the road. 


And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller looked and sighed : “ Ah me ! 
That I the Judge’s bride might be! 

“ He would dress me up in silks so fine, 

And praise and toast me at his wine. 

“ My father should wear a broadcloth coat; 

My brother should sail a painted boat. 

“ I’d dress my mother so grand and gay, 

And the baby should have a new toy each day. 



She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
And filled for him her small tin cup, 


“ And I’d feed the hungry and clothe the poor, 
And all should bless me who left our door.” 


And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

“ Thanks ! ” said the Judge, “ a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed.” 


The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill. 
And saw Maud Muller standing still. 

“ A form more fair, a face more sweet, 

Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet. 
















JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


87 


“ And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

“Would she were mine, and I to-day, 

Like her, a harvester of hay: 

“ No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

“ But low of cattle, and song of birds, 

And health, and quiet, and loving words.’’ 

• 

But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 

And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 

When he hummed in court an old love-tune; 

And the young girl mused beside the well, 

Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 

Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth’s bright glow, 

He watched a picture come and go; 

And sweet Maud Muller’s hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft when the wine in his glass was red, 

He longed for the wayside well instead; 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 

To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, 
“ Ah, that I were free again ! 

“ Free as when I rode that day, 

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.” 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 

And many children played round her door. 


But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, 

Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new mown hay in the meadow lot, 

And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein, 

And gazing down with timid grace, 

She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 

The tallow candle an astral burned ; 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 

Dozing and grumbling o’er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 

And joy was duty and love was law. 

t 

Then she took up her burden of life again, 
Saying only, “ It might have been.” 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all, 

Who vainly the dreams of youth recall; 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these : “ It might have been ! ” 

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes; 

And. in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away! 


O* 


MEMORIES. 



BEAUTIFUL and happy girl 

With step as soft as summer air, 
And fresh young lip and brow of pearl 
Shadow’d by many a careless curl 
Of unconfined and flowing hair: 


A seeming child in every thing 

Save thoughtful brow, and ripening 
charms, 

As nature wears the smile of spring 
When sinking into summer’s arms. 













88 


JOHN GREEN LEAF WHITTIER. 


A mind rejoicing in the light 
Which melted through its graceful bower, 
Leaf after leaf serenely bright 
And stainless in its holy white 
Unfolding like a morning flower: 

A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute 
With every breath of feeling woke, 

And, even when the tongue was mute, 

From eye and lip in music spoke. 

How thrills once more the lengthening chain 
Of memory at the thought of thee !— 

Old hopes which long in dust have lain, 

Old dreams come thronging back again, 

And boyhood lives again in me; 

I feel its glow upon my cheek, 

Its fulness of the heart is mine, 

As when I lean’d to hear thee speak, 

Or raised my doubtful eye to thine. 

I hear again thy low replies, 

I feel thy arm within my own, 

And timidly again uprise 
The fringed lids of hazel eyes 

With soft brown tresses overblown. 

Ah ! memories of sweet summer eves, 

Of moonlit wave and willowy way, 

Of stars and flowers and dewy leaves, 

And smiles and tones more dear than they ! 

Ere this thy quiet eye hath smiled 
My picture of thy youth to see, 

When half a woman, half a child, 

Thy very artlessness beguiled, 

And folly’s self seem’d wise in thee. 

I too can smile, when o'er that hour 

The lights of memory backward stream, 
Yet feel the while that manhood’s power 
Is vainer than my boyhood’s dream. 


Years have pass’d on, and left their trace 
Of graver care and deeper thought; 
And unto me the calm, cold face 
Of manhood, and to thee the grace 
Of woman’s pensive beauty brought, 

On life’s rough blasts for blame or praise 
The schoolboy’s name has widely flown; 
Thine in the green and quiet ways 
Of unobtrusive goodness known. 

And wider yet in thought and deed 
Our still diverging thoughts incline, 
Thine the Genevan’s sternest creed, 

While answers to my spirit’s need 
The Yorkshire peasant’s simple line. 

For thee the priestly rite and prayer, 

And holy day and solemn psalm, 

For me the silent reverence where 
My brethren gather, slow and calm. 

Yet hath thy spirit left on me 

An impress time has not worn out, 

And something of myself in thee, 

A shadow from the past, I see 

Lingering even yet thy way about; 

Not wholly can the heart unlearn 
That lesson of its better hours, 

Not yet has Time’s dull footstep worn 
To common dust that path of flowers. 

Thus, while at times before our eye 
The clouds about the present part, 

And, smiling through them, round us lie 
Soft hues of memory’s morning sky— 

The Indian summer of the heart, 

In secret sympathies of mind, 

In founts of feeling which retain 
Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find 
Our early dreams not wholly vain ! 


"O* 


THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. 


H OOK on him—through his dungeon-grate, 
Feebly and cold, the morning light 
Comes stealing round him, dim and late, 
As if it loathed the sight. 

Reclining on his strawy bed, 

His hand upholds his drooping head— 

His bloodless cheek is seam’d and hard, 
Unshorn his gray, neglected beard ; 

And o’er his bony fingers flow 
His long, dishevell’d locks of snow. 

No grateful fire before him glows,— 

And yet the winter’s breath is chill: 


And o’er his half-clad person goes 
The frequent ague-thrill! 

Silent—save ever and anon, 

A sound, half-murmur and half-groan, 
Forces apart the painful grip 
Of the old sufferer’s bearded lip: 

0, sad and crushing is the fate 
Of old age chain’d and desolate ! 

Just God ! why lies that old man there ? 

A murderer shares his prison-bed, 
Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair, 
Gleam on him fierce and red; 






















JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


89 


And the rude oatli and heartless jeer 
Fall ever on his loathing ear, 

And, or in wakefulness or sleep 
Nerve, flesh, and fibre thrill and creep, 
Whene’er that ruffian’s tossing limb, 
Crimson'd with murder, touches him ! 

What has the gray-hair’d prisoner done ? 

Has murder stain’d his hands with gore? 
Not so : his crime's a fouler one : 

God made the old man poor ! 

For this he shares a felon’s cell— 

The fittest earthly type of hell! 

For this—the boon for which he pour’d 
His young blood on the invader’s sword, 
And counted light the fearful cost— 

His blood-gain'd liberty is lost! 

And so, for such a place of rest, 

Old prisoner, pour’d thy blood as rain 
On Concord’s field, and Bunker’s crest, 
And Saratoga’s plain ? 

Look forth, thou man of many scars, 
Through thy dim dungeon’s iron bars 1 
It must be joy, in sooth, to see 
Yon monument uprear’d to thee—- 
Piled granite and a prison cell— 

The land repays thy service well i 

Go, ring the bells and fire the guns, 

And fling the starry banner out; 


Shout “ Freedom !” till your lisping ones 
Give back their cradle-shout: 

Let boasted eloquence declaim 
Of honor, liberty, and fame ; 

Still let the poet’s strain be heard, 

With “ glory ” for each second word, 

And everything with breath agree 
To praise, “ our glorious liberty !” 

And when the patriot cannon jars 
That prison’s cold and gloomy wall, 

And through its grates the stripes and stars 
Rise on the wind, and fall—- 
Think ye that prisoner’s aged ear 
Rejoices in the general cheer ! 

Think ye his dim and failing eye 
Is kindled at your pageantry ? 

Sorrowing of soul, and chain’d of limb, 
What is your carnival to him ? 

Down with the law that binds him thus! 

Unworthy freemen, let it find 
No refuge from the withering curse 
Of God and human kind ! 

Open the prisoner’s living tomb, 

And usher from its brooding gloom 
The victims of your savage code, 

To the free sun and air of God ! 

No longer dare as crime to brand, 

The chastening of the Almighty’s hand ! 


-+ 0 *- 


THE STORM. 


FROM SNOW-BOUND.” 


It is a New 
•ns’ 

Snow-bound 

iption of a winter scene, iamiuar.in tne country surrounding w miner s nome in Connect¬ 
icut. The complete poem is published in illustrated form by Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., by whose per¬ 
mission this extract is here inserted. 


Snow-bound is regarded as Whittier’s master-piece, as a descriptive and reminiscent poem. It is a Nc 
England Fireside Idyl, which in its faithfulness recalls, “The Winter Evening,” of Cowper, and Burr 
“Cotter’s Saturday Night” ; but in sweetness and animation, it is superior to either of these, 
is a faithful description of a winter scene, familiar in the country surrounding Whittier’s hoi 


NWARNED by any sunset light 
The gray day darkened into night, 

A night made hoary with the swarm 
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, 

As zigzag wavering to and fro 
Crossed and recrossed the winged snow r ; 
And ere the early bedtime came 
The white drift piled the window-frame, 
And through the glass the clothes-line posts 
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 

So all night long the storm roared on : 

The morning broke without a sun ; 

In tiny spherule traced with lines 



Of Nature’s geometric signs, 

In starry flake, and pellicle, 

All day the hoary meteor fell; 

And, when the second morning shone, 

We looked upon a world unknown, 

On nothing we could call our own. 

Around the glistening wonder bent 
The blue walls of the firmament, 

No cloud above, no earth below,— 

A universe of sky and snow ! 

The old familiar sight of ours 

Took marvelous shapes; strange domes and towers 

Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, 

Or garden wall, or belt of wood; 


% 











90 


JOHN GEEENLEAF WHITTIER. 


A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, 
A fenceless drift what once was road ; 

The bridle-post an old man sat 

With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; 

The well-curb had a Chinese roof; 

And even the long sweep, high aloof, 

In its slant splendor, seemed to tell 
Of Pisa’s leaning miracle. 

A prompt, decisive man, no breath 
Our father wasted : “ Boys, a path ! ” 

Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy 


Count such a summons less than joy ? ) 
Our buskins on our feet we drew ; 

With mittened hands, and caps drawn low^ 
To guard our necks and ears from snow, 
We cut the solid whiteness through, 

And, where the drift was deepest, made 
A tunnel walled and overlaid 
With dazzling crystal: we had read 
Of rare Aladdin’s wondrous cave, 

And to our own his name we gave, 

With many a wish the luck were ours 
To test his lamp’s supernal powers. 


-*<>♦- 


ICHABOD. 

The following poem w T as written on hearing of Daniel Webster’s course in supporting the “Compromise 
Measure,” including the “Fugitive Slave Law”. This speech was delivered in the United States Senate 
on the 7th of March, 1850, and greatly incensed the Abolitionists. Mr. Whittier, in common with many 
New Englanders, regarded it as the certain downfall of Mr. Webster. The lines are full of tender regret, 
deep grief and touching pathos. 


fallen ! so lost! the light withdrawn 
Which once he wore ! 

The glory from his gray hairs gone 
For evermore! 

Bevile him not,—the Tempter hath 
A snare for all! 

And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, 
Befit his fall. 

Oh ! dumb be passion’s stormy rage, 
When he who might 

Have lighted up and led his age 
Falls back in night. 

Scorn ! would the angels laugh to mark 
A bright soul driven, 

Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, 
From hope and heaven? 

Let not the land, once proud of him, 
Insult him now, 



Nor brand with deeper shame his dim 
Dishonor’d brow. 

But let its humbled sons, instead, 

From sea to lake, 

A long lament, as for the dead, 

In sadness make. 

Of all we loved and honor’d, nought 
Save power remains,— 

A fallen angel’s pride of thought 
Still strong in chains. 

All else is gone ; from those great e} r es 
The soul has fled : 

When faith is lost, when honor dies, 
The man is dead ! 

Then pay the reverence of old days 
To his dead fame; 

Walk backward with averted gaze, 

And hide the shame ! 
















OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 


POET, ESSAYIST AND HUMORIST. 



HIS distinguished author, known and admired throughout the Eng¬ 
lish speaking world for the rich vein of philosophy, good fellowship 
and pungent humor that runs through his poetry and prose, was born 
in Cambridge, Massachusetts, August 29th, 1809, and died in Bos¬ 
ton, October 27th 1894, at the ripe old age of eighty-five—the “ last 
leaf on the tree” of that famous group, Whittier, Longfellow, Lowell, 
Emerson, Bryant, Poe, Willis, Hawthorne, Richard Henry Dana, Thoreau, Mar¬ 
garet Fuller and others who laid the foundation of our national literature, and with 
all of whom he was on intimate terms as a co-laborer at one time or another. 

Holmes graduated at Harvard College in 1829. His genial disposition made him 
a favorite with his fellows, to whom some of his best early poems are dedicated. 
One of his classmates said of him :—“He made you feel like you were the best fel¬ 
low in the world and he was the next best.” Benjamin Pierce, the astronomer, and 
Rev. Samuel F. Smith, the author of our National Hymn, were his class-mates and 
have been wittily described in his poem “ The Boys.” Dr. Holmes once humorously 
said that he supposed “ the three people whose poems were best known were himself, 
one Smith and one Brown. As for himself, everybody knew who he was ; the one 
Brown was author of ‘ I love to Steal a While Away,’ and the one Smith was 
author of ‘My Country ’Tis of Thee.’” 

After graduation Holmes studied medicine in the schools of Europe, but returned 
to finish his course and take his degree at Harvard. For nine years he was Profes¬ 
sor of Physiology and Anatomy at Dartmouth College, and in 1847 he accepted a 
similar position in Harvard University, to which his subsequent professional labors 
were devoted. He also published several works on medicine, the last being a volume 
of medical essays, issued in 1883. 

Holmes’ first poetic publication was a small volume published in 1836, including 
three poems which still remain favorites, namely, “ My Aunt,” “The height of the 
Ridiculous ” and “The Last Leaf on the Tree.” Other volumes of his poems were 
issued in 1846, 1850, 1861, 1875 and 1880. 

Dr. Holmes is popularly known as the poet of society, this title attaching because 
most of his productions were called forth by special occasions. About one hundred 
of them were prepared for his Harvard class re-unions and his fraternity (Phi Beta 
Kappa) social and anniversary entertainments. The poems which will preserve 

his fame, however, are those of a general interest, like “ The Deacon’s Masterpiece,” 

91 
































92 


OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 


& 

Eg 


in which the Yankee spirit speaks out, “The Voiceless,” “The Living Temple,” 
“ The Chambered Nautilus,” in which we find a truly exalted treatment ot a lofty 
theme ; “ The Last Leaf on the Tree,” which is a remarkable combination of pathos 
and humor; “The Spectre Pig” and “The Ballad of an Oysterman,” showing to 
what extent he can play in real fun. In fact, Dr. Holmes was a many-sided man, 
and equally presentable on all sides. It has been truthfully said of him, “ No other 
American versifier has rhymed so easily and so gracefully. We might further add, 
no other in his personality, has been more universally esteemed and beloved by those 
who knew him. 

As a prose writer Holmes was equally famous. His “ Autocrat at the Breakfast 
Table,” “ Professor at the Breakfast Table ” and “ Poet at the Breakfast Table,” 
published respectively in 1858, 1859 and 1873, are everywhere known, and not to 
have read them is to have neglected something important in literature. The 
“ Autocrat ” is especially a masterpiece. An American boarding house with its 
typical characters forms the scene. The Autocrat is the hero, or rather leader, of 
the sparkling conversations which make up the threads of the book. Humor, satire 
and scholarship are skilfully mingled in its graceful literary formation. In this 
work will also be found “ The Wonderful One Horse Shay ” and “ The Chambered 
Nautilus,” two of the author’s best poems. 

Holmes wrote two novels, “ Elsie Venner ” and “The Guardian Angel,” which 
in their romance rival the weirdness of Hawthorne and show his genius in 
this line of literature. “Mechanism in Thought and Morals” (1871), is a 
scholarly essay on the function of the brain. As a biographer Dr. Holmes has also 
given us excellent memoirs of John Lothrop Motley, the historian, and Balph 
Waldo Emerson. Among his later products may be mentioned “ A Mortal Anti¬ 
pathy,” which appeared in 1885, and “One Hundred Days in Europe” (1887). 

Holmes was one of the projectors of “ The Atlantic Monthly,” which was started 
in 1857, in conjunction with Longfellow, Lowell and Emerson, Lowell being its 
editor. It was to this periodical that the “ Autocrat ” and “ The Professor at the 
Breakfast Table” were contributed. These papers did much to secure the perman¬ 
ent fame of this magazine. It is said that its name was suggested by Holmes, and 
he is also credited with first attributing to Boston the distinction of being the “ Hub 
of the solar system,” which he, with a mingling of humor and local pride, declared 
was “located exactly at the Boston State House.” 

Unlike other authors, the subject of this sketch was very much himself at all 
times and under all conditions. Holmes the man, Holmes the professor of physio¬ 
logy, the poet, philosopher, and essayist, were all one and the same genial soul. 
His was the most companionable of men, whose warm flow of fellowship and good 
cheer the winters of four score years and five could not chill,—“ The last Leaf on 
the Tree,” whose greenness the frost could not destroy. He passed away at the age 
of eighty-five still verdantly young in spirit, and the world will smile for many 
generations good naturedly because he lived. Such lives are a benediction to the race. 

Finally, to know Holmes’ writings well, is to be made acquainted with a singularly 
lovable nature. The charms of his personality are irresistible. Among the poor, 
among the literary, and among the society notables, he was ever the most welcome 
of guests. His geniality, humor, frank, hearty manliness, generosity and readiness. 












OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 


93 


to amuse and be amused, together with an endless store of anecdotes, his tact and 
union of sympathy and ^ originality, make him the best of companions for an hour 
or for a lifetime. His friendship is generous and enduring. All of these qualities 
of mind and heart are felt as the reader runs through his poems or his prose writ¬ 
ings. . AV e feel that Holmes has lived widely and found life good. It is precisely 
for this reason that the reading of his writings is a good tonic. It sends the blood 
more courageously through the veins. After reading Holmes, we feel that life is 
easier and simpler and a finer affair altogether and more worth living for than we 
had been wont to regard it. 

o # 

The following paragraph published in a current periodical shortly after the death 
of Mr. Holmes throws further light upon the personality of this distinguished 
author: 

“ Holmes himself must have harked back to forgotten ancestors for his brightness. 
His father was a dry as dust Congregational preacher, of whom some one said that 
he fed his people sawdust out of a spoon. But from his childhood Holmes was 
bright and popular. One of his college friends said of him at Harvard, that ‘ he 
made you think you were the best fellow in the world, and he was the next best.’” 

Dr. Holmes was first and foremost a conversationalist. He talked even on paper. 
There was never the dullness of the written word. His sentences whether in prose 
or verse were so full of color that they bore the charm of speech. 

One of his most quoted poems “ Dorothy Q,” is full of this sparkle, and carries 
a suggestion of his favorite theme : 


Grandmother’s mother : her age I guess 
Thirteen summers, or something less; 

Girlish bust, but womanly air ; 

Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair; 
Lips that lover has never kissed ; 

Taper fingers and slender wrist; 

Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade; 

So they painted the little maid. 

^ * * * * 

What if a hundred years ago 
Those close shut lips had answered No, 
When forth the tremulous question came 
That cost the maiden her Norman name, 
A.nd under the folds that looked so still 
The bodice swelled with the bosom’s thrill? 
Should I be I, or would it be 
One tenth another to nine tenths me ? 


94 


OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 




OME, dear old comrade, you and I 
Will steal an hour from days gone by 
The shining days when life was new, 
And all was bright as morning dew, 
The lusty days of long ago, 

When you were Bill and I was Joe. 

Your name may flaunt a titled trail’ 

Proud as a cockerel’s rainbow tail: 

And mine as brief appendix wear 
As Tam O’Shanter’s luckless mare ; 

To-day, old friend, remember still 
That I am Joe and you are Bill. 

You’ve won the great world’s envied prize, 

And grand you look in peosde’s eyes, 

With HON. and LL.D., 

In big brave letters, fair to see— 

Your fist, old fellow ! off they go !— 

How are you, Bill ? How are you, Joe ? 

You’ve worn the judge’s ermined robe ; 

You’ve taught your name to half the globe; 
You’ve sung mankind a deathless strain ; 

You’ve made the dead past live again ; 

The world may call you what it will, 

But you and I are Joe and Bill. 

The chaffing young folks stare and say, 

“ See those old buffers, bent and gray ; 

They talk like fellows in their teens ! 

Mad, poor old boys ! That’s what it means”— 
And shake their heads; they little know 
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe— 


While Joe sits smiling at his side ; 

How Joe, in spite of time’s disguise, 

Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes— 
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill 
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. 

Ah, pensive scholar ! what is fame ? 

A fitful tongue of leaping flame; 

A giddy whirlwind’s fickle gust, 

That lifts a pinch of mortal dust; 

A few swift years, and who can show 
Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe 1 

The weary idol takes his stand, 

Holds out his bruised and aching hand, 
While gaping thousands come and go— 
How vain it seems, this empty show — 

Till all at once his pulses thrill: 

’Tis poor old Joe’s “ God bless you, Bill!” 

And shall we breathe in happier spheres 
The names that pleased our mortal ears,—= 
In some sweet lull of harp and song, 

For earth-born spirits none too long, 

Just whispering of the world below, 

Where this was Bill, and that was Joe? 

No matter ; while our home is here 
No sounding name is half so dear ; 

When fades at length our lingering day, 
Who cares what pompous tombstones say ? 
Bead on the hearts that love us still 
Hie jacet Joe. Hie jacet Bill. 


BILL AND JOE. 

How Bill forgets his hour of pride, 



O 


UNION AND LIBERTY. 



LAG of the heroes who left us their glory, 
Borne through their battle-fields’ thun¬ 
der and flame, 

Blazoned in song and illuminated in story, 
Wave o’er us all who inherit their fame. 

Up with our banner bright, 

Sprinkled with starry light, 

Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, 
While through the sounding sky 
Loud rings the Nation's cry— 

Union and Liberty! One Evermore! 


Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation, 
Pride of her children, and honored afar, 

Let the wide beams of thy full constellation 
Scatter each cloud that would darken a star ! 
Empire unsceptred ! What foe shall assail thee 
Bearing the standard of Liberty’s van ? 


Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee, 
Striving with men for the birthright of man ! 

Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted, 

Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must 
draw, 

Then with the arms to thy million united, 

Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law! 

Lord of the universe ! shield us and guide us, 

Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun ! 
Thou hast united us, who shall divide us? 

Keep us, 0 keep us the Many in One ! 

Up with our banner bright, 

Sprinkled with starry light, 

Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, 
While through the sounding sky 
Loud rings the Nation’s cry— 

Union and Liberty! One Evermore! 





























OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 


95 


OLD IRON SIDES. 

The following poem has become a National Lyric. It was first printed in the “Boston Daily Advertiser,” 
when the Frigate “Constitution” lay in the navy-yard at Charlestown. The department had resolved 
upon breaking her up ; but she was preserved from this fate by the following verses, which ran through the 
newspapers with universal applause; and, according to “Benjamin’s American Monthly Magazine,” of 
January, 1837, it was printed in the form of hand-bills, and circulated in the city of Washington . 


Y, tear her tatter’d ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high, 

And many an eye has danced to see 
That banner in the sky; 

Beneath it rung the battle-shout, 

And burst the cannon’s roar : 

The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more! . 

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood, 
Where knelt the vanquish’d foe, 

When winds were hurrying o’er the flood, 
And waves were white below, 



No more shall feel the victor’s tread, 
Or know the conquer’d knee ; 

The harpies of the shore shall pluck 
The eagle of the sea ! 

0, better that her shatter’d hulk 
Should sink beneath the wave; 

Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 
And there should be her grave; 

Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail, 

And give her to the god of storms,—- 
The lightning and the gale ! 




MY AUNT. 



Y aunt! my dear unmarried aunt! 
Long years have o’er her flown ; 
Yet still she strains the aching clasp 
That binds her virgin zone; 

I know it hurts her,—though she looks 
As cheerful as she can ; 

Her waist is ampler than her life, 

For life is but a span. 


They braced my aunt against a board, 

To make her straight and tall; 

They laced her up, they starved her down, 
To make her light and small; 

They pinch’d her feet, they singed her hair 
They screw’d it up with pins,— 

Oh, never mortal suffer’d more 
In penance for her sins. 


My aunt, my poor deluded aunt! 

Her hair is almost gray ; 

Why will she train that winter curl 
In such a spring-like way ? 

How can she lay her glasses down, 
And say she reads as well, 

When, through a double convex lens, 
She just makes out to spell ? 


So, when my precious aunt was done, 
My grandsire brought her back 
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth 
Might follow on the track); 

“ Ah ! ” said my grandsire, as he shook 
Some powder in his pan, 

“What could this lovely creature do 
Against a desperate man!” 


Her father—grandpapa ! forgive 
This erring lip its smiles— 

Vow’d she would make the finest girl 
Within a hundred miles. 

He sent her to a stylish school; 

’Twas in her thirteenth June ; 

And with her, as the rules required, 

“ Two towels and a spoon.” 


Alas ! nor chariot, nor barouche, 

Nor bandit cavalcade 
Tore from the trembling father’s arms 
His all-accomplish’d maid. 

For her how happy had it been ! 

And Heaven had spared to me 
To see one sad, ungather’d rose 
On my ancestral tree. 


THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS. 



WROTE some lines once on a time 
In wondrous merry mood, 

And thought, as usual, men would say 
They were exceeding good. 


They were so queer, so very queer, 
I laugh’d as I would die; 

Albeit, in the general way, 

A sober man am I. 






















96 


OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 




I call’d my servant, and he came: 

How kind it was of him, 

To mind a slender man like me, 

He of the mighty limb ! 

“ These to the printer,” I exclaim’d, 
And, in my humorous way, 

I added (as a trifling jest), 

“ There'll be the devil to pay.” 


He read the next; the grin grew broad. 

And shot from ear to ear; 

He read the third; a chuckling noise 
I now began to hear. 

The fourth ; he broke into a roar; 

The fifth, his waistband split; 

The sixth, he burst five buttons off, 

And tumbled in a fit. 


He took the paper, and I watch'd, 
And saw him peep within; 

At the first line he read, his face 
Was all upon the grin. 


Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, 
I watch’d that wretched man, 

And since, I never dare to write 
As funny as I can. 


THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 


£|||ggHIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 
Sails the unshadow’d main,— 

MSM The venturous bark that flings 

On the sweet summer wind its purpled 
wings 

In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare. 

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming 
hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; 

Wreck’d is the ship of pearl! 

And every chamber’d cell, 

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 

As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies reveal’d,— 

Its iris’d ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal’d! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 
That spread his lustrous coil; 

Still, as the spiral grew, 

He left the past year’s dwelling for the new, 


Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 
Built up its idle door, 

Stretch’d in his last-found home, and knew the old 
no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 
Child of the wandering sea, 

Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! 

While on mine ear it rings, 

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice 
that sings:— 

Build thee more stately mansions, 0 my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past! 

Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free, 

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea! 


■♦O*- 


OLD AGE AND THE PROFESSOR. 

Mr. Holmes is as famous for his prose as for liis poetry. The following sketches are characteristic of his 
happy and varied st} r le. 


LD AGE, this is Mr. Professor; Mr. Pro¬ 
fessor, this is Old Age. 

Old Age. —Mr. Professor, I hope to see 
you well. I have known you for some time, though 
I think you did not know me. Shall we walk down 
the street together ? 

Professor (drawing back a little).—We can talk 
more quietly, perhaps, in my study. Will you tell 


me how it is you seem to be acquainted with every¬ 
body you are introduced to, though he evidently con¬ 
siders you an entire stranger ? 

Old Age .—I make it a rule never to force myself 
upon a person’s recognition until I have known him 
at least five years. 

Professor .—Do you mean to say that you have 
known me so long as that ? 

























































































* 































































97 


OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 


Old Age. —I do. I left my card on you longer 
ago than that, but I am afraid you never read it; 
yet I see you have it with you. 

Professor .—Where ? 

Old Age. —There, between your eyebrows,—three 
straight lines running up and down; all the probate 
courts know that token,—“ Old Age, his mark.™ Put 
your forefinger on the inner end of one eyebrow, and 
your middle finger on the inner end of the other eye¬ 
brow ; now separate the fingers, and you will smooth 
out my sign manual; that’s the way you used to look 
before I left my card on you. 

Professor .—What message do people generally send 
back when you first call on them ? 


Old Age.—Not at home. Then I leave a card 
and go. Next year I call; get the same answer; 
leave another card. So for five or six—sometimes 
ten—years or more. At last, if they don’t let me in, 
I break in through the front door or the windows. 

We talked together in this way some time. Then 
Old Age said again,—Come, let us walk down the 
street together,—and offered me a cane,—an eye-glass, 
a tippet, and a pair of overshoes.—No, much obliged 
to you, said I. I don’t want those things, and I had 
a little rather talk with you here, privately, in my study. 
So I dressed myself up in a jaunty way and walked 
out alone ;—got a fall, caught a cold, was laid up with a 
lumbago, and had time to think over this whole matter. 


■♦O*- 


THE BRAIN. 


UR brains are seventy-year clocks. The 
Angel of Life winds them up once for all, 
then closes the case, and gives the key into 
the hands of the Angel of the Resurrection. 

Tic-tac! tic-tac! go the wheels of thought; our 
will cannot stop them ; they cannot stop themselves; 


sleep cannot still them ; madness only makes them go 
faster; death alone can break into the case, and, 
seizing the ever-swinging pendulum, which we call 
the heart, silence at last the clicking of the terrible 
escapement we have carried so long beneath our 
wrinkled foreheads. 





MY LAST WALK WITH THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 



CAN’T say just how many walks she and 
I had taken before this one. I found 
the effect of going out every morning 
was decidedly favorable on her health. Two pleasing 
dimples, the places for which were just marked when 
she came, played, shadowy, in her freshening cheeks 
when she smiled and nodded good-morning to me 
from the schoolhouse steps. * * * 

The schoolmistress had tried life. Once in a while 


one meets with a single soul greater than all the 
living pageant that passes before it. As the pale 
astronomer sits in his study with sunken e^es and 
thin fingers, and weighs Uranus or Neptune as in a 
balance, so there are meek, slight women who have 
weighed all which this planetary life can offer, and 
hold it like a bauble in the palm of their slender 
hands. This was one of them. Fortune had left 
her, sorrow had baptized her; the routine of labor 
and the loneliness of almost friendless city-life were 
before her. Yet, as I looked upon her tranquil face, 
gradually regaining a cheerfulness which was often 


7 P H 


sprightly, as she became interested in the various 
matters we talked about and places we visited, I 
saw that eye and lip and every shifting lineament 
were made for love,—unconscious of their sweet office 
as yet, and meeting the cold aspect of Duty with the 
natural graces which were meant for the levaid of 
nothing less than the Great Passion. 

It was on the Common that we were walking. 
The mall , or boulevard of our Common, you know, 
has various branches leading from it in diffeient 
directions. One of these runs downward from oppo¬ 
site Joy Street southward across the whole length of 
the Common to Boylston Street. Y e called it the 
long path, and were fond of it. 

I felt very weak indeed (though of a tolerably 
robust habit) as we came opposite the head of this 
path on that morning. I think I tried to speak twice 
without making myself distinctly audible. At last I 
got out the question,—Will you take the long path 
with me ? Certainly,—said the schoolmistress—with 
much pleasure. Think,—I said,—before you answer: 






















98 


OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 


if you take the long path with me now, I shall in¬ 
terpret it that we are to part no more! The school¬ 
mistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if 
an arrow had struck her. 

One of the long granite blocks used as seats was 
hard by,—the one you may still see close by the 


Gingko-tree. Pray, sit down,—I said. No, no,—sho 
answered softly,— I will walk the long path with you ! 

The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walk¬ 
ing, arm in arm, about the middle of the long path, 
and said, very charmingly,—“ Good-morning, my 
dears! ” 





A RANDOM CONVERSATION 


ON OLD MAXIMS, BOSTON AND OTHER TOWNS. 
(From “ The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.'") 


IN has many tools, but a lie is the handle 
which fits them all. 

I think Sir,—said the divinity student, 
—you must intend that for one of the sayings of the 
Seven Wise men of Boston you were speaking of the 
other day. 

I thank you, my young friend,—was the reply,— 
but I must say something better than that, before I 
could pretend to fill out the number. 

The schoolmistress wanted to know how many of 
these sayings there were on record, and what, and by 
whom said. 

Why, let us see,—there is that one of Benjamin 
Franklin, “ the great Bostonian,” after whom this 
land was named. To be sure, he said a great many 
wise things,—and I don’t feel sure he didn’t borrow 
this,—he speaks as if it were old. But then he ap¬ 
plied it so neatly !— 

“ He that has once done you a kindness will be 
more ready to do you another than he whom you 
yourself have obliged.” 

Then there is that glorious Epicurean paradox, 
uttered by my friend, the Historian, in one of his 
flashing moments:— 

“ Give us the luxuries of life, and we will dispense 
with its necessaries.” 

To these must certainly be added that other saying 
of one of the wittiest of men :— 

“ Good Americans, when they die, go to Paris.” 

The divinity student looked grave at her, but 
said nothing. 

The schoolmistress spoke out, and said she didn’t 
think the wit meant any irreverence. It was only 
another way of saying, Paris is a heavenly place after 
New York or Boston. 


A jaunty looking person, who had come in with 
the young fellow they call John,—evidently a 
stranger,—said there was one more wise man’s say¬ 
ing that he had heard; it was about our place, but 
he didn’t know who said it.—A civil curiosity was 
manifested by the company to hear the fourth wise 
saying. I heard him distinctly whispering to the 
young fellow who brought him to dinner, Shall I tell 
it? To which the answer was, Go ahead! —Well,— 
he said,—this was what I heard :— 

“ Boston State-House is the hub of the solar 
system. You couldn’t pry that out of a Boston man, 
if you had the tire of all creation straightened out 
for a crow-bar.” 

Sir,—said I,—I am gratified with your remark. 
It expresses with pleasing vivacity that which I have 
sometimes heard uttered with malignant dullness. 
The satire of the remark is essentially true of Bos¬ 
ton,—and of all other considerable—and inconsider¬ 
able—places with which I have had the privilege of 
being acquainted. Cockneys think London is the 
only place in the world. Frenchmen—you remember 
the line about Paris, the Court, the World, etc.-^I 
recollect well, by the way, a sign in that city which 
ran thus : “ Hotel de l’Univers et des Etats Unis ;” 
and as Paris is the universe to a Frenchman, of course 
the United States are outside of it. “ See Naples 
and then die.” It is quite as bad with smaller places. 
I have been about lecturing, you know, and have 
found the following propositions to hold true of all 
of them. 

1. The axis of the earth sticks out visibly through 
the center of each and every town or city. 

2. If more than fifty years have passed since its 
foundation, it is affectionately styled by the inhabi- 

















OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 


99 


tants the “ good old town of --” (what¬ 

ever its name may happen to be). 

3. Every collection of its inhabitants that comes 
together to listen to a stranger is invariably declared 
to be a “ remarkably intelligent audience.” 

4. The climate of the place is particularly favorable 
to longevity. 

5. It contains several persons of vast talent little 
known to the world. (One or two of them, you may 
perhaps chance to remember, sent short pieces to the 
“ Pactolian ” some time since, which were “ respect¬ 
fully declined.”) 

Boston is just like other places of its size—only, 
perhaps, considering its excellent fish-market, paid 
fire department, superior monthly publications, and 
correct habit of spelling the English language, it has 
some right to look down on the mob of cities. I'll 
tell you, though, if you want to know it, what is the 
real offense of Boston. It drains a large water-shed 
of its intellect, and will not itself be drained. If it 
would only send away its first-rate men instead of its 
second-rate ones (no offense to the well-known excep¬ 
tions, of which we are always proud), we should be 
spared such epigrammatic remarks as that the 
gentleman has quoted. There can never be a real 
metropolis in this country until the biggest centre can 
drain the lesser ones of their talent and wealth. I 
have observed, by the way, that the people who really 
live in two great cities are by no means so jealous of 
each other, as are those of smaller cities situated within 
the intellectual basin, or suction range, of one large 
one, of the pretensions of any other. Don’t you see 
why? Because their promising young author and 
rising lawyer and large capitalist have been drained 
off to the neighboring big city,—their prettiest girls 
have exported to the same market; all their ambition 
points there, and all their thin gilding of glory comes 
from there. I hate little, toad-eating cities. 

L*. of C. 


Would I be so good as to specify any particular 
example ?—Oh,—an example ? Did you ever see a 
bear trap? Never? Well, shouldn’t you like to see 
me put my foot into one? With sentiments of the 
highest consideration I must beg leave to be excused. 

Besides, some of the smaller cities are charming. 
If they have an old church or two, a few stately 
mansions of former grandees, here and there an old 
dwelling with the second story projecting (for the 
convenience of shooting the Indians knocking at the 
front-door with their tomahawks)—if they have, 
scattered about, those mighty square houses built 
something more than half a century ago, and stand¬ 
ing like architectural boulders dropped by the former 
diluvium of wealth, whose refluent wave has left 
them as its monument,—if they have gardens with 
elbowed apple-trees that push their branches over the 
high board-fence and drop their fruit on the side¬ 
walk,—if they have a little grass in their side-streets, 
enough to betoken quiet without proclaiming decay,— 
I think I could go to pieces, after my life’s tranquil 
places, as sweetly as in any cradle that an old man 
may be rocked to sleep in. I visit such spots always 
with infinite delight. My friend, the Poet, says, that 
rapidly growing towns are most unfavorable to the 
imaginative and reflective faculties. Let a man live 

G 

in one of these old quiet places, he says, and the wine 
of his soul, which is kept thick and turbid by the 
rattle of busy streets, settles, and as you hold it up, 
you may see the sun through it by day and the stars 
by night. 

Do I think that the little villages have the conceit 
of the great towns? I don’t believe there is much 
difference. You know how they read Pope’s line in 
the smallest town in our State of Massachusetts? 
Well, they read it,— 

“All are but parts of one stupendous Hull!” 



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JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

POET, CRITIC, AND ESSAYIST. 

HILE the popularity of Lowell has not been so great as that of Whit¬ 
tier, Longfellow or Holmes, his poetry expresses a deeper thought 
and a truer culture than that of any one of these; or, indeed, of any 
other American poet, unless the exception be the “ transcendental 
philosopher,” Emerson. As an anti-slavery poet, he was second 
only to Whittier. 

Janies Russell Lowell was born in Cambridge, Mass., February 22, 1819, and 
died in the same city on August 12, 1891, in the seventy-third year of his age. He 
was the youngest son of the Rev. Charles Lowell, an eminent Congregational clergy¬ 
man, and was descended from the English settlers of 1639. He entered Harvard 
in his seventeenth year and graduated in 1838, before he was twenty. He began 
to write verses early. In his junior year in college he wrote the anniversary poem, 
and, in his senior year, was editor of the college magazine. Subsequently, he 
studied law and was admitted to the bar in 1840; but, it seems, never entered 
upon the practice- of his profession. If he did it is doubtful if he ever had even 
that first client whom he afterwards described in a humorous sketch. 

His first appearance in literature was the publication, in 1839, of the class poem 
which he had written, but was not permitted to recite on account of his temporary 
suspension from College for neglect of certain studies in the curriculum for which he 
had a distaste. In this poem he satirized the Abolitionists, and the transcendental 
school of writers, of which Emerson was the prophet and leader. This poem, while 
faulty, contained much sharp wit and an occasional burst of feeling which por¬ 
tended future prominence for its author. 

Two years later, in 1841, the first volume of Lowell’s verse appeared, entitled 
U A Year’s Life.” This production was so different from that referred to above that 
critics would have regarded it as emanating from an entirely different mind had not 
the same name been attached to both. It illustrated entirely different feelings, 
thoughts and habits, evinced a complete change of heart and an entire revolution in 
his mode of thinking. His observing and suggestive imagination had caught the 
tone and spirit of the new and mystical philosophy, which his first publication had 
ridiculed. Henceforth, he aimed to make Nature the representative and minister 
of his feelings and desires. Lowell was not alone, however, in showing how capri¬ 
cious a young author’s character may be. A notable parallel is found in the great 

100 



















































JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 


101 


Englishman, Carlyle whose “ Life of Schiller ” and his “Sator Resartus,” are 
equally as unlike himself as were Lowells first two publications. In 1844, came 
another. volume of poems, manifesting a still further mark of advancement. The 
longest in this collection “ The Legend of Brittany ”—is, in imagination and artis¬ 
tic finish, one of his best and secured the first general consent for the author’s 
admission into the company of men of genius. 

During this same year (1844) Mr. Lowell married the poetess, Maria White, an 
ardent Abolitionist, whose anti-slavery convictions influenced his after career. Two 
of Mrs. Lowell s poems, “ The Alpine Sheep ” and the “ Morning Glory ” are 
especially popular. Lowell was devotedly attached to his singularly beautiful and 



HOME OF JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 


sympathetic poet wife and made her the subject of some of his most exquisite verses. 
They were both contributors to the “ Liberty Bell ” and “ Anti-slavery Standard, 
thus enjoying companionship in their labors. 

In 1845, appeared Lowell’s “ Conversation on Some Old Poets,” consisting of a 
series of criticisms, and discussions which evince a careful and delicate study. This 
was the beginning of the critical work in which he afterward became so famous, that 
he was styled “The First Critic of America.” 

Lowell was also a humorist by nature. His irrepressible perception of the comi¬ 
cal and the funny find expression everywhere, both in his poetry and prose. His 



















102 


JAMES KUSSELL LOWELL. 


“ Fable for Critics ” was a delight to those whom he both satirized and criticised in a 
good-natured manner. Bryant, Poe, Hawthorne and Whittier, each are made to pass 
in procession for their share of criticism—which is as excellent as amusing—and 
Carlyle and Emerson are contrasted admirably. This poem, however, is faulty in 
execution and does not do its author justice. His masterpiece in humor is the famous 
“Biglow Papers.” These have been issued in two parts; the first being inspired by 
Tie Mexican War, and the latter by the Civil War between the states. Hosea Biglow, 
\he country Yankee philosopher and supposed author of the papers, and the Bev. 
\Iomer Wilber, his learned commentator and pastor of the first church at Jaalem, 
reproduce the Yankee dialect, and portray the Yankee character as faithfully as 
they are amusing and funny to the reader. 

In 1853, Mrs. Lowell died, on the same night in which a daughter was born to the 
poet Longfellow, who was a neighbor and a close friend to Lowell. The coincident 
inspired Longfellow to write a beautiful poem, “The Two Angels,” which he sent 
to Mr. Lowell with his ex23i*ession of sympathy: 


“ Twas at thy door, 0 friend, and not at mine 
The angel with the amaranthine wreath, 
Pausing, descended, and with voice divine 
Uttered a word that had a sound like death. 

“ Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, 

A sliaddow on those features fair and thin, 

And slowly, from that hushed and darkened room, 
Two angels issued, where but one w r ent in. 

11 Angels of life and death alike are His; 

Without His leave, they pass no threshold o’er: 
Who then would wish, or dare, believing this, 
Against His messengers to shut the door?” 


Quite in contrast with Lowell, the humorist, is Lowell, the serious and dignified 
author. His patriotic poems display a courage and manliness in adhering to the 
right and cover a wide range in history. But it is in his descriptions of nature 
that his imagination manifests its greatest range of subtilty and power. “The 
Vision of Sir Launfal” is, perhaps, more remarkable for its descriptions of the 
months of June and December than for the beautiful story it tells of the search for 
the “ Holy Grail ” (the cup) which held the wine which Christ and the Apostles 
drank at the last supper. 

Lowell’s prose writings consist of his contributions to magazines, which were 
afterwards gathered in book form, and his public addresses and his political essays. 
He was naturally a poet, and his prose writings were the outgrowth of his daily 
labors, rather than a work of choice. As a professor of modern languages in Har¬ 
vard College (in which position he succeeded the poet Longfellow); as editor of the 
“ Atlantic Monthly,” on which duty he entered at the beginning of that magazine, 
in 1857, his editorial work on the “North American Beview ” from 1863 to 1872, 
together with his political ministry in Spain and England, gave him, he says, “ quite 
enough prosaic work to do.” 


JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 


103 


It was to magazines that he first contributed “Fireside Travels,” “Among My 
Books, and My btudy Window,” which have been since published in book form, 
ihese publications cover a wide field of literature and impress the reader with a 
spirit oi inspiration and enthusiasm. Lowell, like Emerson and Longfellow, was 
an optimist oi the most pronounced type. In none of his writings does he express 

a i 8 w-ii ° f „ dlscontent or despair. His “ Pictures from Appledore ” and “ Under 
the Willows are not more sympathetic and spontaneous than his faith in mankind, 
Ills healthful nature, and his rosy and joyful hope of the future. 

In 1877, Mr. Lowell was appointed minister to Spain by President Hayes, and, 
in 1880, was transferred, in the same capacity to London. This position he 
resigned in 1885 and returned to America to resume his lectures in Harvard Uni¬ 
versity. While in England, Mr. Lowell was lionized as no other minister at that 
time had been and was in great demand as a public lecturer and speaker. Oliver 
Wendell Holmes thus writes of his popularity with the “ British Cousins 


By what enchantment, what alluring arts, 

Our truthful James led captive British hearts,— 
****** 
Like honest \ ankees we can simply guess; 

But that he did it, all must needs confess.” 


He delivered a memorial address at the unveiling of the bust of the poet Coleridge 
in Westminster Abbey. On his return to America, this oration was included with 
others in his volume entitled “Democracy and Other Addresses.” (1887). 

As a public man, a representative of the United States Government, in foreign 
ports, he upheld the noblest ideals of the republic. He taught the purest lessons of 
patriotism—ever preferring his country to his party—and has criticised, with 
energy, and indignation, political evils and selfishness in public service, regarding 
these as the most dangerous elements threatening the dignity and honor of American 
citizenship. 

Among scholars, Lowell, next to Emerson, is regarded the profoundest of American 
poets; and, as the public becomes more generally educated, it is certain that he will 
grow in popular favor. To those who understand and catch the spirit of the man, 
noticeable characteristics of his writings are its richness and variety. He is at once, 
a humorist, a philosopher, and a dialectic verse writer, an essayist, a critic, and a 
masterful singer of songs of freedom as well as of the most majestic memorial odes. 

Unlike Longfellow and Holmes, Lowell never wrote a novel; but his insight into 
character and ability to delineate it would have made it entirely possible for him to 
assay, successfully, this branch of literature. This power is seen especially in his 
“Biglow Papers” as well as in other of his character sketches. The last of 
Lowell’s works published was “ Latest Literary Essays and Addresses,” issued in 
1892, after his death. 



104 


JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 


THE GOTHIC GENIUS. 


FROM “THF, CATHEDRAL.” 


SEEM to have heard it said by learned folk, 
Who drench you with aesthetics till you feel 
As if all beauty were a ghastly bore, 

The faucet to let loose a wash of words, 
That Gothic is not Grecian, therefore worse; 

But, being convinced by much experiment 
How little inventiveness there is in man, 

Grave copier of copies, I give thanks 
For a new relish, careless to inquire 
My pleasure’s pedigree, if so it please— 

Nobly I mean, nor renegade to art. 

The Grecian gluts me with its perfectness, 
Unanswerable as Euclid, self-contained, 

The one thing finished in this hasty world— 

For ever finished, though the barbarous pit, 
Fanatical on hearsay, stamp and shout 
As if a miracle could be encored. 



But ah ! this other, this that never ends, 

Still climbing, luring Fancy still to climb, 

As full of morals half divined as life, 

Graceful, grotesque, with ever-new surprise 
Of hazardous caprices sure to please; 

Heavy as nightmare, airy-light as fern, 
Imagination’s very self in stone ! 

With one long sigh of infinite release 
From pedantries past, present, or to come, 

I looked, and owned myself a happy Goth. 

Your blood is mine, ye architects of dream, 
Builders of aspiration incomplete, 

So more consummate, souls self-confident, 

Who felt your own thought worthy of record 
In monumental pomp ! No Grecian drop 
Bebukes these veins that leap with kindred thrill, 
After long exile, to the mother tongue. 


-•O*- 


THE BOSE. 


I. 



his tower sat the poet 

Gazing on the roaring sea, 

Take this rose,” he sighed, “and throw it 
Where there’s none that loveth me. 

On the rock the billow bursteth, 

And sinks back into the seas, 

But in vain my spirit thirsteth 
So to burst and be at ease. 


Take, 0 sea ! the tender blossom 
That hath lain against my breast; 
On thy black and angry bosom 
It will find a surer rest, 

Life is vain, and love is hollow, 

Ugly death stands there behind, 
Hate, and scorn, and hunger follow 
Him that toileth for his kind.” 


Forth into the night he hurled it, 

And with bitter smile did mark 
How the surly tempest whirled it 
Swift into the hungry dark. 

Foam and spray drive back to leeward, 
And the gale, with dreary moan, 
Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, 
Through the breaking, all alone. 

II. 


Stands a maiden, on the morrow, 
Musing by the wave-beat strand, 


Half in hope, and half in sorrow 
Tracing words upon the sand : 

“ Shall I ever then behold him 

Who hath been my life so long,— 
Ever to this sick heart fold him,— 
Be the spirit of his song ? 

“ Touch not, sea, the blessed letters 
I have traced upon thy shore, 
Spare his name whose spirit fetters 
Mine with love forever more ! ” 
Swells the tide and overflows it, 

But with omen pure and meet, 
Brings a little rose and throws it 
Humbly at the maiden’s feet. 

Full of bliss she takes the token, 
And, upon her snowy breast, 
Soothes the ruffled petals broken 
With the ocean’s fierce unrest. 

“ Love is thine, 0 heart! and surely 
Peace shall also be thine own, 

For the heart that trusteth purely 
Never long can pine alone.” 

III. 


In his tower sits the poet, 

Blisses new, and strange to him 
Fill his heart and overflow it 
With a wonder sweet and dim. 































JAMES RUSSELL 

Up the beach the ocean slideth 
With a whisper of delight, 

And the moon in silence glideth 

Through the peaceful blue of night. 

Rippling o’er the poet’s shoulder 
Flows a maiden’s golden hair, 

Maiden lips, with love grown bolder, 

Kiss his moonlit forehead bare. 

“ Life is joy, and love is power, 

Death all fetters doth unbind, 


LOWELL. 105 

Strength and wisdom only flower 
When we toil for all our kind. 

Hope is truth, the future giveth 
More than present takes away, 

And the soul forever liveth 
Nearer God from day to day.” 

Not a word the maiden muttered, 

Fullest hearts are slow to speak, 

But a withered rose-leaf fluttered 
Down upon the poet’s cheek. 


-•O*- 


THE HERITAGE. 


HE rich man’s son inherits lands, 

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, 
And he inherits soft white hands, 

And tender flesh that fears the cold, 
Nor dares to wear a garment old ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man’s son inherits cares ; 

The bank may break, the factory burn, 

A breath may burst his bubble shares, 

And soft, white hands could hardly earn 
A living that would serve his turn ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man’s son inherits wants, 

His stomach craves for dainty fare; 

With sated heart he hears the pants 

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, 

And wearies in his easy chair; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man’s son inherit? 

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; 

King of two hands, he does his part 
In every useful toil and art; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A kin" might wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man’s son inherit? 

Wishes o’erjoy’d with humble things, 

A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit, 


Content that from employment springs, 
A heart that in his labor sings; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man’s son inherit ? 

A patience learn’d of being poor, 
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, 

A fellow-feeling that is sure 
To make the outcast bless his door; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

% 

0 rich man’s son ! there is a toil, 

That with all others level stands; 

Large charity doth never soil, 

But only whiten, soft, white hands,— 
This is the best crop from thy lands; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

Worth being rich to hold in fee. 

0 poor man’s son ! scorn not thy state; 

There is worse weariness than thine, 

In merely being rich and great; 

Toil only gives the soul to shine, 

And makes rest fragrant and benign; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

Worth being poor to hold in fee. 

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, 

Are equal in the earth at last; 

Both, children of the same dear God, 
Prove title to your heirship vast 
By record of a well-fill’d past; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

Well worth a life to hold in fee. 














106 


JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 


ACT FOR TRUTH. 


HE busy world shoves angrily aside 

The man who stands with arms akimbo set, 
Until occasion tells him what to do ; 

And he who waits to have his task mark’d 
out 

Shall die and leave his errand unfulfill’d. 

Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds; 

Reason and Government, like two broad seas, 

Yearn for each other with outstretched arms 
Across this narrow isthmus of the throne, 

And roll their white surf higher every day. 

One age moves onward, and the next builds up 
Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood 
The rude log huts of those who tamed the wild, 
Rearing from out the forests they had fell’d 
The goodly framework of a fairer state; 

The builder’s trowel and the settler’s axe 
Are seldom wielded by the selfsame hand; 

Ours is the harder task, yet not the less 
Shall we receive the blessing for our toil. 

From the choice spirits of the after-time. 

The field lies wide before us, where to reap 
The easy harvest of a deathless name, 

Though with no better sickles than our swords. 

My soul is not a palace of the past, 

Where outworn creeds, like Rome’s gray senate, 
quake, 4 

Hearing afar the Vandal’s trumpet hoarse, 

That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit. 

The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change ; 

Then let it come: I have no dread of what 



Is call’d for by the instinct of mankind; 

Nor think I that God’s world will fall apart 
Because we tear a parchment more or less. 

Truth is eternal, but her effluence, 

With endless change, is fitted to the hour : 

Her mirror is turn’d forward, to reflect 
The promise of the future, not the past. 

He who would win the name of truly great 
Must understand his own age and the next, 

And make the present ready to fulfil 
Its prophecy, and with the future merge 
Gently and peacefully, as wave with wave. 

The future works out great men’s destinies ; 

The present is enough for common souls, 

Who, never looking forward, are indeed 
Mere clay wherein the footprints of their age 
Are petrified forever: better those 
Who lead the blind old giant by the hand 
From out the pathless desert w T here he gropes, 
And set him onward in his darksome way. 

I do not fear to follow out the truth, 

Albeit along the precipice’s edge. 

Let us speak plain : there is more force in names 
Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep 
Its throne a whole age longer if it skulk 
Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name. 

Let us all call tyrants tyrants, and maintain 
That only freedom comes by grace of God, 

And all that comes not by His grace must fall; 
For men in earnest have no time to waste 
In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth. 


o 


THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 



HE snow had begun in the gloaming, 
And busily all the night 
Had been heaping field and highway 
With a silence deep and white. 


I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
Where a little headstone stood ; 

II ow the flakes were folding it gently, 
As did robins the babes in the wood. 


Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 


Up spoke our own little Mabel, 

Saying, “ Father, who makes it snow? 
And I told of the good All-father 
Who cares for us here below. 


From sheds new-roofed with Carrara 
Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow, 

The stiff rails were softened to swan’s down, 
And still fluttered down the snow. 

I stood and watched by the window 
The noiseless work of the sky, 

And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 

Like brown leaves whirling by. 


Again I looked at the snow-fall 
And thought of the leaden sky 
That arched o'er our first great sorrow, 
When that mound was heaped so high. 

I remembered the gradual patience 
That fell from that cloud like snow, 
Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
The scar of our deep-plunged woe. 
















JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 


107 


And again to the child I whispered, 
“ The snow that husheth all, 
Darling, the merciful Father 
Alone can make it fall!” 


Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; 

And she, kissing back, could not know 
That my kiss was given to her sister, 

Folded close under deepening snow. 

-•O* - 


FOURTH 

i. 

UR fathers fought for liberty, 

They struggled long and well, 
History of their deeds can tell— 
But did they leave us free ? 

II. 

Are we free from vanity, 

Free from pride, and free from self, 

Free from love of power and pelf, 

From everything that’s beggarly ? 

in. 

Are we free from stubborn will, 

From low hate and malice small, 

From opinion’s tyrant thrall ? 

Are none of us our own slaves still ? 


OF JULY ODE. 

IV. 

Are we free to speak our thought, 
To be happy, and be poor, 

Free to enter Heaven’s door, 

To live and labor as we ought? 

v. ' 

Are we then made free at last 
From the fear of what men say, 
Free to reverence To-day, 

Free from the slavery of the Past? 

vi. 

Our fathers fought for liberty, 

They struggled long and well, 
History of their deeds can tell— 
But ourselves must set us free. 



-- 

THE DANDELION. 


EAR common flower, that grow’st beside the 
way, 

Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, 
First pledge of blithesome May, 

Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, 
High-hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they 
An Eldorado in the grass have found, 

Which not the rich earth’s ample round 
May match in wealth—thou art more dear to me 
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. 

Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow 
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, 

Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
Of age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease; 

Tis the Spring’s largess, which she scatters now 
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, 

Though most hearts never understand 
To take it at God’s value, but pass by 
The offer’d wealth with unrewarded eye. 



Then think I of deep shadows on the grass— 

Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, 

Where, as the breezes pass, 

The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways— 

Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, 

Or whiten in the wind—of waters blue 

That from the distance sparkle through 
Some woodland gap—and of a sky above, 

Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move 

My childhood’s earliest thoughts are link’d with 
thee; 

The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song, 

Who, from the dark old tree 
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, 

And I, secure in childish piety, 

Listen'd as if I heard an angel sing 

With news from heaven, which he did bring 
Fresh every day to my untainted ears, 

When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. 


Thou art my trophies and mine Italy; 

To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; 

The eyes thou givest me 
Are in the heart, and heed not space or time; 

Not in mid June the golden-cuirass’d bee 
Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment 
In the white lily’s breezy tint, 

His conquer’d Sybaris, than I, when first 
From the dark green thy yellow, circles burst. 


How like a prodigal doth Nature seem, 

When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! 

Thou teachest me to deem 
More sacredly of every human heart, 

Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, 
Did we but pay the love we owe, 

And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look 
On all these living pages of God’s book. 



















108 


JAMES KUSSELL LOWELL. 


THE ALPINE SHEER 


It is proper, in conneqtion with the writings of Lowell, to insert the following poem by his wife, M* 
White Lowell, a singularly accomplished and beautiful woman, born July 8, 1821, married to the j 
Lowell in 1844. died on the 22d of October 1853. In 1855 her husband had a volume of her poe 
privately printed, the character of which may be judged from the following touching lines addressee t 
friend after the loss of a child. 



I 


HEN on my ear your loss was knell’d, 

And tender sympathy upburst, 

A little spring from memory well’d, 

Which once had quench’d my bitter 
thirst, 

And I was fain to bear to you 
A portion of its mild relief, 

That it might be a healing dew, 

To steal some fever from your grief. 

After our child’s untroubled breath 
Up to the Father took its way, 

And on our home the shade of Death 
Like a long twilight haunting lay, 

4 

And friends came round, with us to weep 
Her little spirit’s swift remove, 

The story of the Alpine sheep 
Was told to us by one we love. 

They, in the valley’s sheltering care, 

Soon crop the meadow’s tender prime, 

And when the sod grows brown and bare, 

The shepherd strives to make them climb 

To airy shelves of pasture green, 

That hang along the mountain’s side, 

Where grass and flowers together lean, 

And down through mists the sunbeams slide. 



But naught can tempt the timid things 
The steep and rugged path to try, 

Though sweet the shepherds calls and sings, 
And sear’d below the pastures lie, 

Till in his arms his lambs he takes, 

Along the dizzy verge to go : 

Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks, 

They follow on o’er rock and snow. 

And in these pastures, lifted fair, 

More dewy-soft than lowland mead, 

The shepherd drops his tender care, 

And sheep and lambs together feed. 

This parable, by Nature breathed, 

Blew on me as the south wind free 

O’er frozen brooks that flow unsheathed 
From icy thraldom to the sea. 

A blissful vision through the night 
Would all my happy senses sway 

Of the Good Shepherd on the height, 

Or climbing up the starry way, 

Holding our little lamb asleep, 

While, like the murmur of the sea, 

Sounded that voice along the deep, 

Saying, “ Arise and follow me.” 
















BAYARD TAYLOR. 


RENOWNED POET, TRAVELER AND JOURNALIST. 


HE subject of this sketch begun life as a farmer boy. He was born 
in Chester county, Pennsylvania, January 11th, 1825. After a few 
years study in country schools he was apprenticed to a West Chester 
printer, with whom he remained until he learned that trade. In his 
boyhood he wrote verses, and before he was twenty years of age 
published his first book entitled, “Ximena and other Poems.” 
Through this book he formed the acquaintance of Dr. Griswold, editor of “Graham’s 
Magazine,” Philadelphia, who gave him letters of recommendation to New York, 
where he received encouragement from N. P. Willis and Horace Greeley, the latter 
agreeing to publish his letters from abroad in the event of his making a journey, 
contemplated, to the old world. 

Thus encouraged he set out to make a tour of Europe, having less than one hun¬ 
dred and fifty dollars to defray expenses. He was absent two years, during which 
time he traveled over Europe on foot, supporting himself entirely by stopping now 
and then in Germany to work at the printer’s trade and by his literary correspon¬ 
dence, for which he received only $500.00. He was fully repaid for this hardship, 
however, by the proceeds of his book (which he published on his return in 1846), 
“Views Afoot, or Europe as Seen with Knapsack and Staff.” This was regarded 
as one of the most delightful books of travel that had appeared up to that time, and 
six editions of it were sold within one year. It is still one of the most popular of 
the series of eleven books of travel written during the course of his life. In 1848 
he further immortalized this journey and added to his fame by publishing “Rhymes 
of Travel,” a volume of verse. 

Taylor was an insatiable nomad, visiting in his travels the remotest regions. “His 
wandering feet pressed the soil of all the continents, and his observing eyes saw the 
strange and beautiful things of the world from the equator to the frozen North and 
South;” and wherever he went the world saw through his eyes and heard through 
his ears the things he saw and heard. Europe, India, Japan, Central Africa, the 
Soudan, Egypt, Palestine, Iceland and California contributed their quota to the 
ready pen of this incessant traveler and rapid worker. He was a man of buoyant 
nature with an eager appetite for new experiences, a remarkable memory, and a 
talent for learning languages. His poetry is full of glow and picturesqueness, in 
style suggestive of both Tennyson and Shelly. His famous “Bedouin Song is 
strongly imitative of Shelly’s “Lines to an Indian Air.” He was an admirable 

109 

















































110 


BAYARD TAYLOR. 




parodist and translator. His translation of “Faust” so closely adheres to Goethe’s 
original metre that it is considered one of the proudest accomplishments in Ameri¬ 
can letters. Taylor is generally considered first among our poets succeeding the 
generation of Poe, Longfellow and Lowell. 

The novels of the traveler, of which he wrote only four, the scenes being laid in 
Pennsylvania and New York, possess the same eloquent profusion manifest in his 
verse, and give the reader the impression of having been written with the ease and 
dash which characterize his stories of travel. In fact, his busy life was too much 
hurried to allow the spending of much time on anything. His literary life occupied 
only thirty-four years and in that time he wrote thirty-seven volumes. He entered 
almost every department of literature and always displayed high literary ability. 
Besides his volumes of travel and the four novels referred to he was a constant 
newspaper correspondent, and then came the greatest labor of all, poetry. This he 
regarded as his realm, and it was his hope of fame. Voluminous as were the works 
of travel and fiction and herculean the efforts necessary to do the prose writing he 
turned off, it was, after all, but the antechamber to his real labors. It was to poetry 
that he devoted most thought and most time. 

In 1877 Bayard Taylor was appointed minister to Berlin by President Hayes, 
and died December 19th, 1878, while serving his country in that capacity. 




THE BISON-TRACK. 


TRIKE the tent! the sun has risen; not a 
cloud has ribb’d the dawn, 

And the frosted prairie brightens to the 
westward, far and wan ; 

Prime afresh the trusty rifle—sharpen well the hunt¬ 
ing-spear— 

For the frozen sod is trembling, and a noise of hoofs 
I hear! 

Fiercely stamp the tether’d horses, as they snuff the 
morning’s fire, 

And their flashing heads are tossing, with a neigh of 
keen desire; 

Strike the tent—the saddles wait us ! let the bridle- 
reins be slack, 

For the prairie’s distant thunder has betray’d the 
bison’s track ! 

See ! a dusky line approaches ; hark ! the onward- 
surging roar, 

Like the din of wintry breakers on a sounding wall 
of shore ! 

Dust and sand behind them whirling, snort the fore¬ 
most of the van, 

And the stubborn horns are striking, through the 
crowded caravan. 

Now the storm is down upon us—let the madden’d 
horses go! 

We shall ride the living whirlwind, though a hundred 
leagues it blow ! 



Though the surgy manes should thicken, and the red 

eyes’ angry glare 

Lighten round us as we gallop through the sand and 1 
rushing air ! 

Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in our wild, resist I 

less race, 

And a sound, like mighty waters, thunder down the 
desert space : 

\ et the rein may not be tighten’d, nor the rider's eve 
look back— 

Death to him whose speed should slacken on the 
madden’d bison’s track ! 

Now the trampling herds are threaded, and the chase 
is close and warm 

For the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the 
storm : 

Ilurl your lassoes swift and fearless—swing your rifles 
as we run ! 

Ha ! the dust is red behind him ; shout, mv brothers, 
he is won ! 

Look not on him as he staggers—’tis the last shot he 
will need ; 

More shall hill, among his fellows, ere we run the bold 
stampede— 

Ere we stem the swarthy breakers—while the wolves, 
a hungry pack, 

Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on the bloody 
bison-track 1 





















35 A YARD TAYLOR. 


Ill 


THE SONG OF THE CAMP. 


IVE us a song ! ” the soldiers cried, 

The outer trenches guarding, 

When the heated guns of the camps allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 

Lay, grim and threatening, under; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belched its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said, 

“ We storm the forts to-morrow, 

Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow.” 

There lay along the battery’s side, 

Below the smoking cannon, 

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, 

And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame; 

Forgot was Britain’s glory ; 

Each heart recalled a different name 
But all sang “Annie Lawrie.” 

Voice after voice caught up the song, 

Until its tender passion 


Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,— 
Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 
But, as the song grew louder, 
Something on the soldier’s cheek 
Washed off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 
The bloody sunset’s embers, 

While the Crimean valleys learned 
How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 
Rained on the Russian quarters. 

With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
And bellowing of the mortars ! 

And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim 
For a singer, dumb and gory; 

And English Mary mourns for him 
Who sang of “ Annie Lawrie.” 

Sleep, soldier ! still in honored rest 
Your truth and valor wearing; 

The bravest are the tenderest,— 

The loving are the daring. 

- 



ROM the Desert I come to thee 
On a stallion shod with fire; 

And the winds are left behind 
In the speed of my desire. 

Under thy window I stand, 

And the midnight hears my cry: 

I love thee, I love but thee, 

With a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold , 

And the stars are old , 

And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold! 


Look from thy window and see 
My passion and my pain ; 

I lie on the sands below, 

And I faint in thy disdain. 

Let the night-winds touch thy brow 
With the heat of my burning sigh, 


BEDOUIN SONG. 

And melt thee to hear the vow 
Of a love that shall not die 

Till the sun grows cold , 

And the stars are old , 

And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold! 


My steps are nightly driven, 

By the fever in my breast, 

To hear from thv lattice breathed 
■/ 

The word that shall give me rest. 

Open the door of thy heart, 

And open thy chamber door, 

And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
The love that shall fade no more 
Till the sun grows cold, 

And the stars are old , 

And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold! 


-♦O*- 


THE ARAB TO THE PALM. 



EXT to thee, 0 fair gazelle, 

0 Beddowee girl, beloved so well; 


Next to the fearless Nedjidee, 


Whose fieetness shall bear me again to thee ', 

Next to ye both I love the Palm, 

With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm; 

























112 


BAYARD TAYLOR. 


Next to ye both I love the Tree 
Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three 
With love, and silence, and mystery! 

Our tribe is many, our poets vie 
With any under the Arab sky ; 

Yet none can sing of the Palm but I. 

The marble minarets that begem 

Cairo's citadel-diadem 

Are not so light as his slender stem. 

He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam’s glance 
As the Alrnehs lift their arms in dance— 


The sun may flame and the sands may stir, 
Put the breath of his passion reaches her. 

0 Tree of Love, by that love of thine, 

Teach me how I shall soften mine ! 

Give me the secret of the sun, 

Whereby the wooed is ever won ! 

If I were a King, 0 stately Tree, 

A likeness, glorious as might be, 

In the court of my palace I’d build for thee ! 



A slumberous motion, a passionate sign, 

That works in the cells of the blood like wine. 

Full of passion and sorrow is he, 

Dreaming where the beloved may be. 

And when the warm south-winds arise, 

He breathes his longing in fervid sighs— 

Quickening odors, kisses of balm, 

That drop in the lap of his chosen palm. 


-“The life thou seek’st 

Thou’lt find beside the eternal Nile.” 

— Moore's Alciphron. 

E Nile is the Paradise of travel. I thought 
I had already fathomed all the depths of 
enjoyment which the traveler’s restless life 
could reach—enjoyment more varied and exciting, 
but far less serene and enduring, than that of a quiet 
home ; but here I have reached a fountain too pure 
and powerful to be exhausted. I never before ex¬ 
perienced such a thorough deliverance from all the 
petty annoyances of travel in other lands, such per¬ 
fect contentment of spirit, such entire abandonment 
to the best influences of nature. Every day opens 
with & jubilate, and closes with a thanksgiving. If 
such a balm and blessing as this life has been to me, 
thus far, can be felt twice in one’s existence, there 
must be another Nile somewhere in the world. 

Other travelers undoubtedly make other experi¬ 
ences and take away other impressions. I can even 
conceive circumstances which would almost destrov 

V 

the pleasure of the journey. The same exquisitely 
gensitive temperament, which in our case has not 


With a shaft of silver, burnished bright 
And leaves of beryl and malachite. 

With spikes of golden bloom a-blaze, 

And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase : 

0 

And there the poets, in thy praise, 

Should night and morning frame new lays— 

New measures sung to tunes divine ; 

But none, 0 Palm, should equal mine ! 


been disturbed by a single untoward incident, might 
easily be kept in a state of constant derangement by 
an unsympathetic companion, a cheating dragoman, 
or a fractious crew. There are also many trifling 
desagremens , inseparable from life in Egypt, which 
some would consider a source of annoyance; but, as 
we find fewer than we were prepared to meet, we are 
not troubled thereby. * * * 

Our manner of life is simple, and might even be 
called monotonous ; but we have never found the 
greatest variety of landscape and incident so thor¬ 
oughly enjoyable. The scenery of the Nile, thus far, 
scarcely changes from day to day, in its forms and 
colors, but only in their disposition with regard to 
each other. The shores are either palm-groves, fields 
of cane and dourra, young wheat, or patches of bare 
sand blown out from the desert. The villages are all 
the same agglomerations of mud walls, the tombs of 
the Moslem saints are the same white ovens, and every 
individual camel and buffalo resembles its neighbor in 
picturesque ugliness. The Arabian and Libyan 
Mountains, now sweeping so far into the foreground 


-•O* - 

LIFE ON THE NILE. 























































. 

V 

* 

























































. 



















---- 








































BAYARD TAYLOR. 


113 


that their yellow cliffs overhang the Nile, now reced¬ 
ing into the violet haze of the horizon, exhibit little 
difference of height, hue, or geological formation. 
Every new scene is the turn of a kaleidoscope, in 
which the same objects are grouped in other relations, 
yet always characterized by the most perfect harmony. 
These slight yet ever-renewing changes are to us a 
source of endless delight. Either from the pure 
atmosphere, the healthy life we lead, or the accordant 
tone of our spirits, we find ourselves unusually sensi¬ 
tive to all the slightest touches, the most minute rays, 
of that grace and harmony which bathes every land¬ 
scape in cloudless sunshine. The various groupings 
of the palms, the shifting of the blue evening shadows 
on the rose-hued mountain-walls, the green of the 
wheat and sugar-cane, the windings of the great 
river, the alternations of wind and calm,—each of 
these is enough to content us, and to give every day 
a different charm from that which went before. We 
meet contrary winds, calms, and sand-banks, without 
losing our patience ; and even our excitement in the 
swiftness and grace with which our vessel scuds be¬ 
fore the north wind, is mingled with a regret that our 
8 P H 


journey is drawing so much the more swiftly to its 
close. A portion of the old Egyptian repose seems 
to be infused into our natures; and lately, when I 
saw my face in a mirror, I thought I perceived in its 
features something of the patience and resignation of 
the sphinx. * * * 

My friend, the Howadji, in whose “ Nile Notes ” 
the Egyptian atmosphere is so perfectly, reproduced, 
says that “ conscience falls asleep on the Nile.” If 
by this he means that artificial quality which bigots 
and sectarians call conscience, I quite agree with him, 
and do not blame the Nile for its soporific powers. 
But that simple faculty of the soul, native to all men, 
which acts best when it acts unconsciously, and leads 
our passions and desires into right paths without 
seeming to lead them, is vastly strengthened by this 
quiet and healthy life. There is a cathedral-like so¬ 
lemnity in the air of Egypt; one feels the presence 
of the altar, and is a better man without his will. To 
those rendered misanthropic by disappointed ambition, 
mistrustful by betrayed confidence, despairing by un- 
assuageable sorrow, let me repeat the motto which 
heads this chapter. 














NATHANIEL PARKER AVILLIS. 

POET, AND THE MOST NOTED MAGAZINIST OF HIS DAY. 


is perhaps unfortunate for Willis that he was such a devotee of 
fashion and form as to attain a reputation for “ foppishness.” Al¬ 
most all men of genius have some habit or besetting sin which 
renders them personally more or less unpopular and sometimes even 
odious to the public eye. The noted poet, Coleridge, of England, 
had the opium habit, and many people who know this cannot divest 
their minds of a certain loathing for the man when they come to read his poems. 
The drink habit of Edgar Allen Poe and other unfortunate facts in his personal 
life have created a popular prejudice also against this brilliant but erratic genius. 
A like prejudice exists against the poet naturalist, Thoreau, whose isolation from 
men and attempt to live on a mere pittance has prejudiced many minds against the 
reading of his profitable productions; for it has been said that no man ever lived 
closer to the heart of nature than did this friend of the birds, the insects, animals, 
flowers, mountains and rivers. It is doubtful if any man in literature has lived a 
purer life or possessed in his sphere a more exalted genius, given us so close an 
insight into nature, or awakened a more enthusiastic study of the subject. 

Therefore let us look with a deserving charity upon the personal pride, or “fop¬ 
pishness,” if we may call it such, of the poet, Willis. He certainly deserves more 
general reputation as a poet than modern critics are disposed to accord him. Many 
of his pieces are of an extraordinary grade of merit, signifying a most analytical 
and poetic mind, and evincing a marked talent and facility for versification and 
prose writing executed in a style of peculiar grace and beauty. 

Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Portland, January 20th 1806. The family 
traces its ancestry back to the fifteenth century in England, and for more than two 
hundred years prior to his birth both his paternal and maternal ancestors had lived 
in New England. The poet’s father was for several years publisher and editor 
of the Easton “Argus,” a political paper established at Portland, Maine, in 1803. 
Pie founded a religious paper, the Boston “Recorder,” in 1816, which he conducted 
for twenty years, and he was also the founder of the first child’s newspaper in the 
world, which is the now famous and widely circulated “ Youth’s Companion.” 
Willis was six years old when his father removed to Boston. He had the best edu¬ 
cational facilities from private tutors and select schools, completing his course at 
Yale College, where he graduated in 1827. While in college he published several 
religious poems unter the signature of “Roy,” gaining in one instance a prize of 





114 






































NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 


115 


fifty dollars for tlie best poem. After his graduation Willis became the editor of 
ser* 

est< 



paper ins “ i^encilings by the Way 
bated during a four years tour in Europe, on which journey he was attached to 
the American legation at Paris, and with a diplomatic passport visited the various 
capitals of Europe and the East. During this sojourn, in 1835, he married Miss 
Mary Stace, daughter of a Waterloo officer. 

After his marriage Mr. Willis returned to this country with his wife and estab¬ 
lished a home on the Susquehanna Biver, which he called Glenmary, the latter 
part of the word being in honor of his wife. Here he hoped to spend the remainder 
of his days quietly in such literary work as pleased his taste, but the resources from 
which his support came were swept away in a financial disaster and he was forced to 
return to active life. He disposed of his country seat, removed to New York, and 
in connection with Dr. Porter established the “Corsair,” a weekly journal. In the 
interest of this publication Mr. Willis made a second journey to England, engaging 
Mr. Thackeray and other well-known writers as contributors. While absent he pub¬ 
lished a miscellany of his magazine stories with the title of “Loiterings of Travel ” 
and also two of his plays. On returning to New York he found that Dr. Porter 
had suddenly abandoned their project in discouragement and he formed a new con¬ 
nection with the “Evening Mirror.” Soon after this the death of his wife occurred, 
his own health failed, and he went abroad determining to spend his life in 
Germany. On reaching Berlin he was attached to the American legation, but went 
away on a leave of absence to place his daughter in school in England. In the 
meantime his health grew so j)recarious that instead of returning to Berlin he sailed 
for America, where he spent the remainder of his life in contributing to various 
magazines. He established a home, “ Idlewild,” in the highlands of the Hudson 
beyond West Point, where he died in 1867 on his sixty-first birthday. 

Throughout his life Mr. Willis was an untiring worker and his days were no 
doubt ended much earlier than if he had taken proper rest. “ The poetry of Mr. 
Willis,” says Duyckinck, “ is musical and original. His religious poems belong to a 
class of composition which critics might object to did not experience show them to 
be pleasing and profitable interpreters to many minds. The versification of these 
poems is of remarkable smoothness. Indeed they have gained the author’s reputa¬ 
tion where his nicer poems would have failed to be appreciated. On the other hand 
his novel in rhyme, ‘ Lady Jane,’ is one of the very choicest of the numerous 
poems cast in the model of ‘Don Juan;’ while his dramas are delicate creations of 
sentiment and passion with a relic of the old poetic Elizabethan stage.” As a 
traveler Mr. Willis has no superior in representing the humors and experiences of 
the world. He is sympathetic, witty, observant, and at the same time inventive. 
That his labors were pursued through broken health with unremitting diligence 
is another claim to consideration which the public should be prompt to acknowledge. 


116 


NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 


DAVID’S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM. 


HE waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung 
low 

On Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curled 
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, 
Unbroken beating of the sleeper’s pulse. 

The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leaves 
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, 

Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems 
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse 
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, 

And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest. 

How strikingly the course of nature tells 
By its light heed of human suffering, 

That it was fashioned for a happier world. 

King David’s limbs were weary. He had fled 
From far Jerusalem : and now he stood 
With his faint people, for a little space, 

Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind 
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow, 

To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 
The mourner’s covering, and had not felt 
That he could see his people until now. 

They gathered round him on the fresh green bank 
And spoke their kindly words: and as the sun 
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, 

And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. 

Oh ! when the heart is full,—when bitter thoughts 
Come crowding thickly up for utterance, 

And the poor common words of courtesy, 

Are such a very mockery—how much 
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! 

He prayed for Israel : and his voice went up 
Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those, 

Whose love had been his shield: and his deep tones 
Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom,— 

For his estranged, misguided Absalom,— 

The proud bright being who had burst away 

In all his princely beauty, to defy 

The heart that cherished him—for him he poured 

In agony that would not be controlled 

Strong supplication, and forgave him there, 

Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. 

* ^ 

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath 
Was straightened for the grave: and as the folds 
Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed 
The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 

His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls 
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed 
To the admitted air, as glossy now 
As when in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing 
The snowy fingers of Judea’s girls. 

His helm was at his feet: his banner soiled 


With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, 
Reversed, beside him ; and the jeweled hilt 
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, 
Rested like mockery on his covered brow. 

The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, 

Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief. 

The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, 

And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, 

As if he feared the slumberer might stir. 

A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade 
As if a trumpet rang: but the bent form 
Of David entered, and he gave command 
In a low tone to his few followers, 

And left him with his dead. The King stood still 
Till the last echo died: then, throwing off 
’The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back 
The pall from the still features of his child, 
lie bowed his head upon him, and broke forth 
In the resistless eloquence of woe: 

“Alas! my noble boy! that thou should’st die,— 

Thou who wert made so beautifullv fair! 

*/ 

That death should settle in thy glorious eye, 

And leave his stillness in this clustering hair— 
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb; 

My proud boy, Absalom ! 

“ Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill 
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee— 
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 

Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee— 
And hear thy sweet ‘ My father ,’ from these duml 
And cold lips, Absalom ! 

“ The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush 
Of music, and the voices of the young: 

And life will pass me in the mantling blush, 

And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung,— 
But thou no more with thy sweet voice shall come 
To meet me, Absalom ! 

“ And, oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart 
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, 

How will its love for thee, as I depart, 

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! 

It were so sweet, amid death’s gathering gloom, 

To see thee, Absalom ! 

“ And now farewell. ’Tis hard to give thee up, 

M ith death so like a gentle slumber on thee; 

And thy dark sin—oh ! I could drink the cup 
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. 

May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, 
My lost boy, Absalom !” 












NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 


117 


He covered up his face, and bowed himself 
A moment on his child ; then giving him 
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped 
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer: 


And as if strength were given him of God, 
He rose up calmly and composed the pall 
Firmly and decently,—and left him there, 
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 




THE DYING ALCHEMIST. 



HE night-wind with a desolate moan swept by, 
And the old shutters of the turret swung 
Creaking upon their hinges; and the moon, 
As the torn edges of the clouds flew past, 
Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes 
So dimly, that the watchful eye of death 
Scarcely was conscious when it went and came. 

The fire beneath his crucible was low, 

Yet still it burned: and ever, as his thoughts 
Grew insupportable, he raised himself 
Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals 
With difficult energy ; and when the rod 
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye 
Felt faint within its socket, he shrank back 
Upon his pallet, and, with unclosed lips, 

Muttered a curse on death ! 


it 


1 


The silent room, 

From its dim corners, mockingly gave back 
His rattling breath ; the humming in the fire 
Had the distinctness of a knell; and when 
Duly the antique horologe beat one, 

He drew a phial from beneath his head, 

And drank. And instantly his lips compressed, 
And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame, 

He rose with supernatural strength, and sat 
Upright, and communed with himself: 


“ I did not think to die 
Till I had finished what I had to do; 

I thought to pierce th’ eternal secret through 
With this my mortal eye; 

I felt,—Oh, God ! it seemeth even now— 
This cannot be the death-dew on my brow; 

Grant me another year, 

God of my spirit!—but a day,—to win 
Something to satisfy this thirst within ! 

I would know something here ! 

Break for me but one seal that is unbroken! 
Speak for me but one word that is unspoken ! 


“ Vain,—vain,—my brain is turning 
With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick, 
And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick, 
And I am freezing,—burning,— 

Dying ! Oh, God ! if I might only live ! 

My phial-Ha ! it thrills me,—I revive. 


“ Aye,—were not man to die, 

He were too mighty for this narrow sphere ! 

Had he but time to brood on knowledge here,— 
Could he but train his eye,— 

Might he but wait the mystic word and hour,— 

Only his Maker would transcend his power! 

“ This were indeed to feel 
The soul-thirst slacken at the living stream,—> 

To live, Oh, God ! that life is but a dream ! 

And death-Aha ! I reel,— 

Dim,—dim,—I faint, darkness comes o’er my eye,—' 
Cover me ! save me !-God of heaven ! I die!" 

’Twas morning, and the old man lay alone. 

No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips, 

Open and ashy pale, th’ expression wore 
Of his death struggle. His long silvery hair 
Lay on his hollow temples, thin and wild, 

His frame was wasted, and his features wan 
And haggard as with want, and in his palm 
His nails were driven deep, as if the throe 
Of the last agony had wrung him sore. 

The storm was raging still. The shutter swung, 
Creaking as harshly in the fitful wind, 

And all without went on,—as aye it will, 

Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart 

Is breaking, or has broken, in its change. 

* 

The fire beneath the crucible was out. 

The vessels of his mystic art lay round, 

Useless and cold as the ambitious hand 
That fashioned them, and the small rod, 

Familiar to his touch for threescore years, 

Lay on th’ alembic’s rim, as if it still 
Might vex the elements at its master’s will. 

And thus had passed from its unequal frame 
A soul of fire,—a sun-bent eagle stricken, 

From his high soaring, down,—an instrument 
Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor 
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies, 

Like the adventurous bird that hath outflown 
His strength upon the sea, ambition wrecked,— 

A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits 
Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest. 



















118 


NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. . 


THE BELFRY PIGEON. 


N the cross-beam under the Old South bell 
The nest of a pigeon is builded well, 

In summer and winter that bird is there, 
Out and in with the morning air. 

I love to see him track the street, 

With his wary eye and active feet; 

And I often watch him as he springs, 

Circling the steeple with easy wings, 

Till across the dial his shade has passed, 

And the belfry edge is gained at last. 

’Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, 

And the trembling throb in its mottled throat; 
There’s a human look in its swelling breast. 

And the gentle curve of its lowly crest; 

And I often stop with the fear I feel, 

He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell, 

Chime of the hour or funeral knell, 

The do^e in the belfrv must hear it well. 

«/ 

When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, 
When the sexton cheerily rings for noon, 

When the clock strikes clear at moraine: light, 

When the child is waked with “ nine at night,” 
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, 
Pilling the spirit with tones of prayer, 

Whatever tale in the bell is heard, 

He broods on his folded feet, unstirred, 


Or, rising half in his rounded nest, 

He takes the time to smooth his breast; 
Then drops again, with filmed eyes, 

And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 

Sweet bird ! I would that I could be 
A hermit in the crowd like thee! 

With wings to fly to wood and glen, 

Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men; 

And daily, with unwilling feet, 

I tread, like thee, the crowded street; 

But, unlike me, when day is o’er, 

Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar; 

Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, 

Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, 
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 

I would that in such wings of gold, 

I could my weary heart up-fold; 

I would I could look down unmoved, 
(Unloving as I am unloved,) 

And while the world throngs on beneath, 
Smooth down my cares, and calmly breathe 
And never sad with others’ sadness, 

And never glad with others’ gladness, 
Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime, 

And, lapped in quiet, bide my time. 











RICH A ED HENRY STODDARD. 


POET AND JOURNALIST. 



ITH no commanding antecedents to support him, Richard Henry Stod¬ 
dard has, step by step, fought his way to a position which is alike 
creditable to his indomitable energy and his genius. Stoddard was 
born July 2,1825, at Hingham, Mass. His father was a sea-captain, 
who, while the poet was yet in his early youth, sailed for Sweden. 
Tidings of his vessel never came back,—this was in 1835. The 
mother removed, the same year, with her son to New York, where he attended 
the public schools of the city. Necessity compelled the widow, as soon as his age 
permitted, to put young Stoddard to work, and he was placed in an iron foundry to 
learn this trade. “Here he worked for some years,’’says one of his biographers, 
“dreaming in the intervals of his toil, and even then moulding his thoughts into the 
symmetry of verse while he moulded the moulten metal into shapes of grace.” At 
the same time he pursued a course of private reading and study, and began to 
write poems and sketches for his own pleasure. 

It was in 1847 that the earliest blossoms of his genius appeared in the “Union 
Magazine,” which gave evidence that his mind as well as his body was toiling. . In 
1848 he issued a small volume of poems entitled, “Footprints,” which contained 
some pieces of merit; but he afterwards suppressed the entire edition. About this 
time his health failed and, to recuperate,* he gave up, temporarily, his mechanical 
vocation; but literature took such possession of him that he never returned to the 
foundry. 

In 1852 he issued his second volume entitled, “Poems,” and became a regular 
contributor to the magazines. In 1860 he was made literary editor of the “New 
York World,” which position he retained until 1870, and since 1880 he has held a 
similar position on the “New York Mail and Express.” He, also, from 1853 to 
1873 held a government position in the Custom House of New York. During this 
time Mr. Stoddard also edited a number of works with prefaces and introduc¬ 
tions by himself, among which may be mentioned the “Bric-a-Brac Series.” 
Prominent titles of the author’s own books are “Songs of Summer,” which appeared 
in 1856- “The King’s Bell,” a series of most delicate suggestive pictures, (1862); 
“Abraham Lincoln, A Horatian Ode,” (1865); “The Book of the East,” poems, 
(1871); a collective edition entitled, “Poems,” (1880), and “The Lion’s Cub,” 

poems, (1890). # __ .. ,, . ,. 

One of our most eminent literary critics declares! Mr, Stoddard s mind is essen- 

lid 

































120 


RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 


E 


tially poetical. All his works are stamped with earnestness. His style is character¬ 
ized by purity and grace of expression. He is a master of rythmical melody and 
his mode of treating a subject is sometimes exquisitely subtle. In his poems there is 
no rude writing. All is finished and highly glazed. The coloring is warm, the 
costumes harmonious, the grouping symmetrical. His poetry always possesses a 
spiritual meaning. Every sound and sight in nature is to him a symbol which 
strikes some spiritual chord. The trees that wave at his window, and the moon 
that silvers his roof are to him things that play an intimate part in his existence. 
Thus in all his poems will be found an echo from an internal to an external nature, 
the harmony resulting from the intimate union of both.” 

Mrs. Elizabeth Stoddard, the wife of the author, has shared heartily in the 
literary labors of her husband, assisting him in his compilations, and is, herself, 
author of numerous contributions to the magazines and a number of pleasing poems. 
She has also written several novels. 

A dinner was given to Mr. Stoddard by the Author’s Club at the Hotel Savoy on 
March 25th, 1897, at which more than one hundred and fifty persons gathered to 
do honor to the venerable poet. Mr. E. C. Stedman, the poet, presided, and good 
talk abounded. It is impossible in this space to give any extended note of the ad¬ 
dresses. Letters of regret were received from many friends of Mr. Stoddard who 
were unable to be present, including Bishop Potter, Professor Charles Eliot Norton, 
Hr. Andrew D. White, William Allen Butler, Donald G. Mitchell, James Whit¬ 
comb Biley and others. 

The admirable letter of Donald G. Mitchell (the famous Ik Marvel), closed in 
these words: 

‘‘There is not one of you who has a truer relish for the charming ways in which 
that favorite poet can twist our good mother-English into resonant shapes of verse. 
I pray you to tell him so, and that only the weakness of age—quickened by this 
wintry March—keeps me from putting in an “Adsum,” at the roll-call of your 
guests.” 

The “Hoosier Poet” sent these lines to represent him: 


0 princely poet! kingly lieir 
Of gifts divinely sent— 

Your own—nor envy anywhere, 
Nor voice of discontent. 


Though, 


of ourselves, all poor are we, 
And frail and weak of wing, 

Your height is ours—your ecstasy, 
Your glory, where you sing. 


Most favored of the gods and great 
In gifts beyond our store, 

We covet not your rich estate, 

But prize our own the more. 


The gods give as but gods may do; 

We count our riches thus— 

They gave their richest gifts to you, 

And then gave you to us. 

James Whitcomb Biley. 
















RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 


12 J 


Mr. Stoddard responded to Mr. Riley and others in the poem quoted below, which 
shows the vigor of mind and spirit enjoyed by this venerable poet of three score 
years and ten and five, on whom the snows of three-quarters of a century have fallen 
so lightly that they seem but to have mellowed rather than weakened his powers. 




A CURTAIN CALL. 



flENTLEMEN : If I have any right 
To come before you here to-night 
It is conferred on me by you, 

And more for what I tried to do 
Than anything that I have done. 

A start, perhaps, a race not won ! 

But ’tis not wholly lost, I see, 

For you, at least, believe in me. 
Comrades, nay, fellows, let me say, 

Since life at most is but a play, 

And we are players, one and all, 

And this is but a curtain call, 

If I were merely player here, 

And this assumption of his part, 

I might pretend to drop a tear, 

And lay my hand upon my heart 
And say I could not speak, because 
I felt so deeply your applause ! 

I cannot do this, if I would ; 

I can but thank you, as I should, 

And take the honors you bestow— 

A largess, not a lawful claim ; 

Mv share thereof is small, I know, 

%/ 

But from your hands to-night is fame—- 
A precious crown in these pert days 
Of purchased or of self-made bays; 

You give it—I receive it, then, 

Though rather for your sake than mine. 
A long and honorable line 
Is yours—the Peerage of the Pen, 
Founded when this old world was young, 
And need was to preserve for men 


(Lost else) what had been said and sung, 
Tales our forgotten fathers told, 

Dimly remembered from of old, 

Sonorous canticles and prayers, 

Service of elder gods than theirs 
Which they knew not; the epic strain 
Wherein dead peoples lived again ! 

A long, unbroken line is ours ; 

It has outlived whole lines of kings, 

Seen mighty empires rise and fall, 

And nations pass away like flowers— 

Ruin and darkness cover all ! 

Nothing withstands the stress and strain, 
The endless ebb and flow of things, 

The rush of Time’s resistless wings! 
Nothing? One thing, and not in vain, 
One thing remains : Letters remain ! 

Your art and mine, yours more than mine, 
Good fellows of the lettered line, 

To whom I owe this Curtain Call, 

I thank you all, I greet you all. 

Noblesse oblige ! But while I may, 
Another word, my last, maybe : 

When this life-play of mine is ended, 

And the black curtain has descended, 
Think kindly as you can of me, 

And say, for you may truly say, 

“ This dead player, living, loved his part, 
And made it noble as he could, 

Not for his own poor personal good, 

But for the glory of his art! ” 


HYMN TO THE BEAUTIFUL. 



Y heart is full of tenderness and tears, 

And tears are in mine eyes, I know not why; 
With all my grief, content to live for years, 
Or even this hour to die. 

My youth is gone, but that I heed not now ; 
My love is dead, or worse than dead 
can be; 


My friends drop off like blossoms from a 
bough, 

But nothing troubles me, 

Only the golden flush of sunset lies 
Within my heart like fire, like dew within 
my eyes! 

























122 


RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 


Spirit of Beauty ! whatsoe’er thou art, 

I see thy skirts afar, and feel thy power; 

It is thy presence fills this charmed hour, 

And fills my charmed heart; 

Nor mine alone, hut myriads feel thee now, 

That know not what they feel, nor why they bow; 
Thou canst not be forgot, 

For all men worship thee, and know it not; 

Nor men alone, hut babes with wondrous eyes, 
New-comers on the earth, and strangers from the skies! 

We hold the keys of Heaven within our hands, 

The gift and heirloom of a former state, 

And lie in infancy at Heaven’s gate, 

Transfigured in the light that streams along the lands ! 
Around our pillows golden ladders rise, 

And up and down the skies, 

With winged sandals shod, 

The angels come, and go, the messengers of God! 
Nor do they, fading from us, e’er depart,— 

It is the childish heart; 

We walk as heretofore, 

Adown their shining ranks, but see them nevermore ! 
Not Heaven is gone, but we are blind with tears, 
Groping our way along the downward slope of years! 

From earliest infancy my heart was thine; 

With childish feet I trod thy temple aisle ; 

Not knowing tears, I worshipped thee with smiles, 
Or if I ever wept, it was with joy divine! 

By day, and night, on land, and sea, and air,— 

I saw thee everywhere ! 

A voice of greeting from the wind was sent; 

The mists enfolded me with soft white arms; 

The birds did sing to lap me in content, 

The rivers wove their charms, 

And every little daisy in the grass 
Hid look up in my face, and smile to see me pass! 

Mot long can Nature satisfy the mind, 

Nor outward fancies feed its inner flame ; 

We feel a growing want we cannot name, 

And long for something sweet, but undefined ; 

The wants of Beauty other wants create, 

Which overflow on others soon or late; 


For all that worship thee must ease the heart, 

By Love, or Song, or Art: 

Divinest Melancholy walks with thee, 

Her thin white cheek forever leaned on thine; 
And Music leads her sister Poesy, 

In exultation shouting songs divine ! 

But on thy breast Love lies,—immortal child !— 
Begot of thine own longings, deep and wild: 

The more we worship him, the more we grow 
Into thy perfect image here below ; 

For here below, as in the spheres above, 

All Love is Beauty, and all Beauty, Love ! 

Not from the things around us do we draw 
Thy light within ; within the light is born ; 

The growing rays of some forgotten morn, 

And added canons of eternal law. 

The painter’s picture, the rapt poet’s song, 

The sculptor’s statue, never saw the Hay ; 

Not shaped and moulded after aught of clay, 
Whose crowning work still does its spirit wrong; 

Hue after hue divinest pictures grow, 

Line after line immortal songs arise, 

And limb by limb, out-starting stern and slow, 

The statue wakes with wonder in its eyes! 

And in the master’s mind 
Sound after sound is born, and dies like wind, 

That echoes through a range of ocean caves, 

And straight is gone to weave its spell upon the 
waves! 

The mystery is thine, 

For thine the more mysterious human heart, 

The temple of all wisdom, Beauty’s shrine, 

The oracle of Art! 

Earth is thine outer court, and Life a breath ; 

Why should we fear to die, and leave the earih ? 
Not thine alone the lesser key of Birth,— 

But all the keys of Death ; 

And all the worlds, with all that they contain 
Of Life, and Death, and Time, are thine alone; 
The universe is girdled with' a chain, 

And hung below the throne 
Where Thou dost sit, the universe to bless,— 
Thou sovereign smile of God, eternal loveliness! 


-•O* 


A DIRGE. 


FEW frail summers had touched thee, 
As they touch the fruit; 

Not so bright as thy hair the sunshine, 
Not so sweet as thy voice the lute. 
Hushed the voice, shorn the hair, all is over: 

An urn of white ashes remains ; 

Nothing else save the tears in our eyes, 



And our bitterest, bitterest pains! 

We garland the urn with white roses, 
Burn incense and gums on the shrine, 
Play old tunes with the saddest of closes, 
Dear tunes that were thine ! 

But in vain, all in vain; 

Thou art gone—we remain! 















RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 


THE SHADOW OF THE HAND. 



OU were very charming, Madam, 

In your silks and satins line ; 

And you made your lovers drunken, 
But it was not with your wine ! 
There were court gallants in dozens, 

There were princes of the land, 

And they would have perished for you 
As they knelt and kissed your hand— 
For they saw no stain upon it , 

It was such a snowy hand ! 


But for me—I knew you better, 

And, while you were flaunting there, 
I remembered some one lying, 

With the blood on his white hair ! 
He was pleading for you, Madam, 
Where the shriven spirits stand ; 

But the Book of Life was darkened, 
By the Shadow of a Hand ! 

It was tracing your perdition , 

For the blood upon your hand ! 


•Of 


A SERENADE. 


HE moon is muffled in a cloud, 
That folds the lover’s star, 
But still beneath thy balcony 
I touch my soft guitar. 

If thou art waking, Lady dear, 
The fairest in the land, 

Unbar thy wreathed lattice now, 
And wave thy snowy hand. 


She hears me not; her spirit lies 
In trances mute and deep ;— 
But Music turns the golden key 
Within the gate of Sleep ! 

Then let her sleep, and if I fail 
To set her spirit free ! 

My song shall mingle in her dream 
And she will dream of me! 



<Lx rv i ,c r br / ^o-i> 















WALT WHITMAN. 


AUTHOR OF “LEAVES OF GRASS.” 



(( 


ERHAPS the estimates of critics differ more widely respecting the 


merits or demerits of Whitman’s verse than on that of any other 
American or English poet. Certain European critics regard him as 
the greatest of all modern poets. Others, both in this country and 
abroad, declare that his so called poems are not poems at all, but 
simply a bad variety of prose. One class characterizes him the 
poet of democracy; the spokesman of the future; full of brotherliness and hope, 
loving the warm, gregarious pressure of the crowd and the touch of his comrade’s 
elbow in the ranks.” The other side, with equal assurance, assert that the Whitman 
culte is the passing fad of a few literary men, and especially of a number of foreign 
critics like Rosetti, Swinburne and Buchanan, who were determined to find some¬ 
thing unmistakably American—that is, different from anything else—and Whitman 
met this demand both in his personality and his verse. They further declared that 
his poetry was superlatively egotistical, his principal aim being always to laud him¬ 
self. This criticism they prove by one of his own poems entitled “Walt Whitman,” 
in which he boldly preaches his claim to the love of the masses by declaring him¬ 
self a “ typical average man ” and therefore “ not individual ” but “ universal.” 

Perhaps it is better in the scope of this article to leave Walt Whitman between 
the fires of his laudators on one side and of his decriers on the other. Certainly 
the canons of poetic art will never consent to the introduction of some things that 
he has written into the treasure-house of the muses. For instance,— 


“ And (I) remember putting plasters on the galls of bis neck and ankles; 

He stayed with me a week before he was recuperated and passed North.” 

These worse than prosaic lines do not require a critic to declare them devoid of any 
element of poetry. But on the other hand, that Whitman had genius is undeniable. 
His stalwart verse was often beautifully rhythmic and the style which he employed 
was nobly grand. Time will sift the wheat from the chaff, consuming the latter and 
preserving the golden grains of true poetry to enrich the future garners of our great 
American literature. No one of the many tributes to Lincoln, not even Lowell’s 
noble eulogy, is more deeply charged with exalted feeling than is Whitman’s dirge 
for Abraham Lincoln written after the death of the President, in which the refrain 
“ O Captain, my Captain,” is truly beautiful. Whitman was no mean master in 
ordinary blank verse, to which he often reverted in his most inspiring passages. 

124 





























WALT WHITMAN. 


125 


One of the chief charms of Whitman’s poetry consists in the fact that the author 
seems to feel, himself, always happy and cheerful, and he writes with an ease and 
abandon that is pleasant to follow. Like one strolling about aimlessly amid pleasing 
surioundings, lie lets his fancy and his senses play and records just what they see 
01 dictate. Phis characteristic, perhaps, accounts for the fact that his single expres¬ 
sions ai e often unsurpassed lor descriptive beauty and truth, such as the reference to 
the prairies, where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread of the square miles.” 
Whoever used a more original and striking figure ? Many of his poems strikingly 
remind one in their constructions (but not in religious fervor) to the Psalms of 
David. There is also often a depth of passion and an intoxication in his rhythmic 
chant that is found perhaps in no other writer, as this specimen, personifying night, 
will illustrate: 

‘‘ Press close, bare-bosomed night! Press close, magnetic, nourishing night! 

Night of the South wind ! Night of the few larger stars ! still, nodding night! Mad, naked, summer night! ” 

Again, Whitman was always hopeful. Like Emerson, he renounced all allegiance 
to the past, and looked confidently to the future. And this reminds us that Emerson 
wrote the introductory to the first edition of “ Leaves of Grass,” which suggests that 
that writer may have exerted no small influence in forming Whitman’s style, for the 
vagueness of his figures, his disconnected sentences, and occasionally his verbiage, are 
not unlike those of the “ Concord Prophet.” Again, the question arises, did he not seek, 
like Emerson, to be the founder of a school of authorship ? His friendliness toward 
young authors and his treatment of them indicate this, and the following he has 
raised up attests the success he attained, whether sought or unsought. But the old 
adage, “ like king like people,” has a deal of truth in it; and as Whitman was 
inferior to Emerson in the exaltation of his ideals, and the unselfishness and sincerity 
of his nature, so his followers must fall short of the accomplishments of those who 
sat at the feet of “ the good and great Emerson.” 

Walt Whitman was born at West Hills, Long Island, May 31, 1819, and was 
educated at the public schools of Brooklyn and New York. Subsequently he 
followed various occupations, among which were those of printer, teacher, carpenter, 
journalist, making in the meantime extended tours in Canada and the United States. 
During the Civil AVar he served as a volunteer nurse in the army hospitals, and at 
the close was appointed as government clerk at AVashington. In 1873 he had a 
severe paralytic attack, which was followed by others, and he took up his residence 
in Camden, New Jersey, where he died in 1892. He was never married. 

Mr. AVhitman’s principal publications are “ Leaves of Grass,” issued first in 1855, 
but he continued to add to and revise it, the “finished edition,” as he called it, 
appearing in 1881. Succeeding this came u Drum Taps,” “ Two Rivulets,” “ Speci¬ 
men Days and Collect,” “ November Boughs,” “ Sands at Seventy.” “ Democratic 
Vista ” was a prose work appearing in 1870. “ Good-Bye, My Fancy,” was his last 

book, prepared between 1890 and his death. His complete poems and prose have 
also been collected in one volume. 

Two recent biographies of the poet have been published: one by John Burroughs, 
entitled “ AValt Whitman, a Study;” the other, “AValt Whitman, the Man,” by 
Thomas Donaldson. The titles indicate the difference in the two treatments. Both 
biographers are great admirers of Whitman. 


126 


WALT WHITMAN. 


DAREST THOU NOW, 0 SOUL. 

The following poems are from “ Leaves of Grass ” and are published by special permission of Mr Horace 
L. Trauble, Mr. Whitman’s literary executor. 


AREST thou now, 0 soul, 

Walk out with me toward the unknown 
region, 

Where neither ground is for the feet nor 
any path to follow ? 

No map there, nor guide, 

Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand, 

Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are 
in that land. 

T know it not, 0 soul, 

Nor dost thou, all is a blank before us, 


All waits undream’d of in that region, that inacces¬ 
sible land. 

Till when the ties loosen, 

All but the ties eternal, Time and Space, 

Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds 
bounding us. 

Then we burst forth, we float, 

In Time and Space, 0 soul, prepared for them, 
Equal, equipt at last, (0 joy ! O fruit of all!) them 
to fulfil, 0 soul. 



* 0 * 


0 CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 


CAPTAIN ! my Captain ! our fearful trip 
is dune, 

The ship has weather’d every rack, the 
prize we sought is won, 

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all 
exulting, 

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim 
and daring; 

But 0 heart! heart! heart! 

0 the bleeding drops of red, 

Where on the deck my Captain lies, 

Fallen cold and dead. 

0 Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells; 

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle 
trills, 

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the 
shores a-crowding, 


For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces 
turning ; 

Here Captain ! dear father ! 

This arm beneath your head ! 

It is some dream that on the deck. 

You’ve fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and 
still, 

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor 
will, 

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage 
closed and done, 

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object 
won ; 

Exult 0 shores, and ring 0 bells! 

But I with mournful tread, 

Walk the deck my Captain lies, 

Fallen cold and dead. 



-+ 0 +- 


IN ALL, MYSELF. 


FROM “ SONG OF MYSELF.” 

The following lines have been commented upon as presenting a strange and erratic combination of the 
most commonplace prose with passionate and sublime poetic sentiment. 


AM the poet of the Body and I am the 
poet of the Soul, 

The pleasures of heaven are with me and 
the pains of hell are with me; 

The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter 
I translate into a new tongue. 



I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, 
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a 
man, 

And I say there is nothing greater than the mother 
of men. 



















WALT WHITMAN. 


127 


[ chant the chant of dilation or pride, 

We have had ducking and deprecation about enough, 

I show that size is only development. 

Have you outstript the rest? are you the President? 

It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every¬ 
one, and still pass on. 

I am he that walks with the tender and growing 
night, 

I call to the earth and sea, half-held by the night. 

Press close bare-blossom’d night—press close magnetic 
nourishing night! 

Night of the South winds—night of the large few 
stars! 

Still nodding night—mad naked summer night. 


Smile, 0 voluptuous cool-breath’d earth ! 

Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! 

Earth of the departed sunset—earth of the moun¬ 
tain misty-topt! 

Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just 
tinged with blue ! 

Earth of the shine and dark mottling the tide of the 
river ! 

Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and 
clearer for my sake ! 

Far-swooping elbow’d earth—rich apple-blossom'd 
earth ! 

Smile, for your lover comes. 

Prodigal, you have given me love—therefore I to you 
give love! 

0 unspeakable, passionate love. 




OLD IRELAND. 


AR hence amid an isle of wondrous beauty, 
Crouching over a grave an ancient sorrow¬ 
ful mother, 

Once a queen, now lean and tatter’d 
seated on the ground, 

Her old white hair drooping dishevel’d round her 
shoulders, 

At her feet fallen an unused royal harp, 

Long silent, she too long silent, mourning her shrouded 
hope and heir, 

Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow be¬ 
cause most full of love. 

Yet a word, ancient mother, 



You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground 
with forehead between your knees ; 

0 you need not sit there veil'd in your old white hair 
so dishevel’d, 

For know you the one you mourn is not in that grave ; 

It was an illusion, the son you love was not really dead; 

The Lord is not dead, he is risen again, young and 
strong, in another country, 

Even while you wept there by your fallen harp by 
the grave, 

What you wept for was translated, pass’d from the 
grave; 

The winds favor’d and the sea sail’d it; 

And now, with rosy and new blood, 

Moves to-day in a new country. 


o 


PiEAN OF JOY. 


FROM “THE MYSTIC TRUMPETER.” 


Reference has been made to the similarity in style manifested in some of Whitman’s poems to the style 
of the Psalmist. Certain parts of “In all, myself,” and the following justify the criticism. 



OW trumpeter for thy close, 

Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet, 
Sing to my soul, renew its languishing 
faith and hope, 

Rouse up my slow belief, give me some vision of the 
future, 

Give me for once its prophecy and joy. 


0 glad, exulting, culminating song! 

A vigor more than earth’s is in thy notes, 

Marches of victory—man disenthrall—the conqueror 
at last, 


Hymns to the universal God from universal man—all 

j°y ! 

A reborn race appears—a perfect world, all joy ! 
Women and men in wisdom, innocence and health— 
all joy ! 

Riotous, laughing bacchanals fill’d with joy ! 

War, sorrow, suffering gone—the rank earth purged 
—nothing but joy left! 

The ocean fill’d with joy—the atmosphere all joy ! 
Joy! joy! in freedom, worship, love! joy in the 
ecstasy of life ! 

Enough to merely be ! enough to breathe ! 

Joy ! joy! all overjoy! 
























JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON. 

POET AND SCIENTIST. 



URING the past forty years Indiana lias been prolific in producing 
prominent men. General Lew Wallace, James Whitcomb Riley, 
Joaquin Miller and Maurice Thompson are among the prominent 
men of letters who are natives of the “ Hoosier State.” 

Maurice Thompson is claimed as belonging to both the North and 
South, and his record, perhaps, justifies this double claim. He was 
born at Fairfield, Indiana, September 9th, 1844, but his parents removed to Ken¬ 
tucky during his childhood and subsequently to Northern Georgia. Pie grew up 
in the latter state, and was so thoroughly Southern in sentiment that he enlisted and 
fought in the Confederate Army. At the end of the Avar, however, he returned to 
Indiana, where he engaged with a Railway Surveying Party in which he proved 
himself so efficient that he was raised from a subordinate to the head position in that 
work, which he followed for some years. After a course of study in law, he began 
his practice in Crawfordsville, Indiana, the same town in which General Lew Wallace 
lived. It was from this section that he was elected to the legislature in 1879. 



Maurice Thompson is not only a man of letters, but is a scientist of considerable 
ability. In 1885, he was appointed chief of the State Geological Survey. He was 
also a Naturalist devoting much attention to ornithology. Many of his poems and 
most delightful prose sketches are descriptive of bird life 

Mr. Thompson has traveled much in the United States, and his Avritings in various 
periodicals as well as his books have attracted wide attention for their original obser¬ 
vation and extensive information while they are excelled by few modern writers for 
poetic richness and diction. 

The first book published by this author Avas entitled “ Hoosier Mosaics ” which 
appeared in 1875. Since then he has issued quite a number of Amlumes among 
which are “ The Witchery of Arcliey;” “The Tallahassee Girl;” “His Second 
Campaign;” “ Songs of Fair Weather;” “At Loves Extremes ;” “ By Ways and 
Bird Notes ;” “ The Boy’s Book of Sports ;” “ A Banker of Bankersville ;” “ Syl¬ 
van Secrets ;” “ The Story of Louisiana ;” “ A Fortnight of Folly.” 

In 1890 Mr. Thompson published “ Bankers of Boonville ” and the same year 
‘became a staff Avriter for the New York Independent. 


























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JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON. 


129 


CERES* 

(the goddess of grain.; 


HE wheat was flowing ankle-deep 

Across the field from side to side; 
And dipping in the emerald waves, 
The swallows flew in circles wide. 

The sun, a moment flaring red, 

Shot level rays athwart the world, 

Then quenched his fire behind the hills, 
With rosy vapors o'er him curled. 

A sweet, insinuating calm,—- 

A calm just one remove from sleep, 
"Such as a tranquil watcher feels, 

Seeing mild stars at midnight sweep 

Through splendid purple deeps, and swing 
Their old, ripe clusters down the west 


To where, on undiscovered hills, 

The gods have gathered them to rest,— 

A calm like that hung over all 

The dusky groves, and, filtered through 
The thorny hedges, touched the wheat 
Till every blade was bright with dew. 

Was it a dream ? We call things dreams 
When we must needs do so, or own 
Relief in old, exploded myths, 

Whose very smoke has long since flown. 

Was it a dream ? Mine own e} 7 es saw, 
And Ceres came across the wheat 
That, like bright water, dimpled round 
The golden sandals of her feet. 



DIANA* 


(the goddess of the chase.) 


HE had a bow of yellow horn 

Like the old moon at early morn. 

She had three arrows strong and good, 
Steel set in feathered cornel wood. 



And, timed to music wild and sweet, 

How swift her silver-sandalled feet! 

Single of heart and strong of hand, 
Wind-like she wandered through the land. 


Like purest pearl her left breast shone 
Above her kirtle’s emerald zone; 

Her right was bound in silk well-knit, 

Lest her bow-string should sever it. 

Ripe lips she had, and clear gray eyes, 

And hair pure gold blown hoyden-wise. 

Across her face like shining mist 
That with dawn’s flush is faintly kissed. 

Her limbs ! how matched and round and fine ! 
How free like song ! how strong like wine ! 


No man (or king or lord or churl) 

Dared whisper love to that fair girl. 

And woe to him who came upon 
Her nude, at bath, like Acteon ! 

So dire his fate, that one who heard 
The flutter of a bathing bird, 

What time he crossed a breezy wood, 

Felt sudden quickening of his blood; 

Cast one swift look, then ran away 

Far through the green, thick groves of May 

Afeard, lest down the wind of spring 
He’d hear an arrow whispering! 


*By permission of “ Houghton, Mifflin & Co.” 


9 P H 




















THOMAS BAILEY ALDKICH. 

ITHOUT the rich imagination of Stoddard, or the versatility of Sted- 
man, Mr. Aldrich surpasses them both in delicate and artistic skill. 
His jewelled lines, exquisitely pointed, express a single mood or a 
dainty epigram with a pungent and tasteful beauty that places him 
easily at the head of our modern lyrical writers. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich was born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 
November 11, 1836. In childhood he was taken to Louisiana, where he remained 
a number of years, his father being a merchant at New Orleans. After returning 
to Portsmouth, he was preparing for college when his father suddenly died, making 
it necessary for him to relinquish this design, to take a position of immediate remun¬ 
eration, which he found in his uncle’s counting house in New York. This pursuit 
he found so far removed from the bent of his mind, however, that he gave it up 
after three years to take a situation as a reader in a New York publishing house. 
During his mercantile career he contributed to the current press, and afterwards be¬ 
came attached to various periodicals as contributor or in an editorial capacity. 
Among others, he worked on N. P. Willis’ “Home Journal,” the “Illustrated News,” 
and the “New York Evening Mirror.” During the Civil AVar he was for a time 
with the Army of the Potomac, as a newspaper correspondent. In 1865, he 
married, and removed to Boston, where he edited “The AVeekly Journal” every 
Saturday. He remained with this paper until 1874. In 1881 he succeeded AVil- 
liam Dean Howells as editor of the “Atlantic Monthly.” This position he resigned 
in 1890 in order to devote himself to personal literary work and travel. The de¬ 
gree of A. M. was conferred upon him in 1883 by Yale, and in 1896 by Harvard 
University. 

Mr. Aldrich had published one volume of verse, “The Bells” (1854), a collec¬ 
tion of juvenile verses, before the “Ballad of Baby Bell and Other Poems” ap¬ 
peared in 1858, and made his reputation as a poet. Other volumes of his poetry 
issued at the following dates are entitled: “Pampinea and Other Poems” (1861), 
“Cloth of Gold and Other Poems” (1873), “Flower and Thorn” (1876), “Friar 
Jerome’s Beautiful Book” (1881), “Mercedes and Later Lyrics” (1883), “Wynd- 
ham Towers” (1889), “Judith and Holofernes, a Poem” (1896). 

Among the prose works of the author we mention “Out of His Head, a Bomance” 
(1862), “The Story of a Bad Boy” (1869),—which became at once a favorite by 
its naturalness and purity of spirit,—“Majorie Daw and Other People” (1873), 
“Prudence Palfrey” (1874), “The Queen of Sheba” (1877), “The Stillwater 
Tragedy” (1880), “From Ponkapogto Pesth” (1883),“TheSisters Tragedy” (1890), 

130 



































THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 


131 


“An Old Town by the Sea;” and “Two Bites at a Cherry and other Tales” 
(1893), “Unguarded Gates” (1895). “Complete Works,” in eight volumes, were 
published in 1897. Mr. Aldrich is said to be a man of the world as well as a man 
of letters and his personal popularity equals his literary reputation. We cannot 
better illustrate his companionable nature and close this sketch than by presenting 
the following pen picture of an incident, clipped from a recent magazine: 

“ During a visit to England, upon one occasion, Mr. Aldrich was the guest of 
William Black, with a number of other well known people. An English journa¬ 
list of some distinction, who had no time to keep in touch with the personality of 




thomas b. aldrich’s study. 

i poets met Mr. Aldrich, and they became excellent friends. They went on long 
I shooting expeditions together, and found each other more than good companions. 
The last nbdit of their stay came, and after dinner Mr. Black made a little speech, 
in which he spoke of Mr. Aldrich’s poetry in a graceful fashion. The London 
iournalist gave a gasp, and looked at Mr. Aldrich, who rose to make a response, as 
if he had never seen him before. As the poet sat down he leaned over him, and 

gal d *_ 

“ Say, Aldrich, are you the man who writes books ?” 

“ Yes,” Mr. Aldrich said. “ I am glad you don’t know, for I am sure you liked 
me for myself.” 




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132 


THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 


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ALEC YEATON’S SON* 

GLOUCESTER, AUGUST, 1720 . 


HE wind it wailed, the wind it moaned, 

And the white caps flecked the sea; 
“An’ I would to God,” the skipper groaned, 
“ 1 had not my boy with me ! ” 

Snug in the stern-sheets, little John 
Laughed as the scud swept by; 

But the skipper’s sunburnt cheek grew wan 
As he watched the wicked sky. 

“ Would he were at his mother’s side! ” 

And the skipper’s eyes were dim. 

“ Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide, 

What would become of him ! 

“ For me—my muscles are as steel, 

For me let hap what may : 

I might make shift upon the keel 
Until the break o’ day. 

“ But he, he is so weak and small, 

So young, scarce learned to stand— 

O pitying Father of us all, 

I trust him in thy hand! 

“ For Thou, who markest from on high 
A sparrow’s fall—each one !— 

Surely, 0 Lord, thou’lt have an eye 
On Alec Yeaton’s son ! ” 


Then, steady, helm ! Right straight he sailed 
Towards the headland light: 

The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed, 

And black, black fell the night. 

Then burst a storm to make one quail 
Though housed from winds and waves—- 
They who could tell about that gale 
Must rise from watery graves ! 

Sudden it came, as sudden went; 

Ere half the night was sped, 

The winds were hushed, the waves were spent. 
And the stars shone overhead. 

Now, as the morning mist grew thin, 

The folk on Gloucester shore 
Saw a little figure floating in 
Secure, on a broken oar! 

Up rose the cry, “A wreck ! a wreck ! 

Pull, mates, and waste no breath ! ”— 

They knew it, though ’t was but a speck 
Upon the edge of death ! 

Long did they marvel in the town 
At God His strange decree, 

That let the stalwart skipper drovn 
And the little child go free! 



* 0 * 


ON LYNN TERRACE* 


LL day to watch the blue wave curl and 
break, 

All night to hear it plunging on the 
shore— 

In this sea-dream such draughts of life I 
take, 

I cannot ask for more. 

Behind me lie the idle life and vain, 

The task unfinished, and the weary hours ; 

That long wave softly bears me back to Spain 
And the Alhambra’s towers ! 

Once more I halt in Andalusian Pass, 

To list the mule-bells jingling on the height; 
Below, against the dull esparto grass, 

The almonds glimmer white. 


Huge gateways, wrinkled, with rich grays and Jvovna 
Invite my fancy, and I wander through 
The gable-shadowed, zigzag streets of towTii 
The world’s first sailors knew. 

Or, if I will, from out this thin sea-liaze 
Low-lying cliffs of lovely Calais rise; 

Or yonder, with the pomp of olden days, 

Venice salutes my eyes. 

Or some gaunt castle lures me up its stair; 

I see, far off, the red-tiled hamlets shine, 

And catch, through slits of windows here and there, 
Blue glimpses of the Rhine. 

Again I pass Norwegian fjord and fjeld, 

And through bleak wastes to where the sunset’s fires 



*By special permission of the Author. 













THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 


133 


Light up the white-walled Russian citadel, 

The Kremlin’s domes and spires. 

And now I linger in green English lanes, 

By garden plots of rose and heliotrope; 

And now I face the sudden pelting rains 
On some lone Alpine slope. 

Now at Tangier, among the packed bazars, 

I saunter, and the merchants at the doors 
Smile, and entice me: here are jewels like stars, 
And curved knives of the Moors ; 

Cloths of Damascus, strings of amber dates; 


What would Howadji—silver, gold, or stone? 
Prone on the sun-scorched plain outside the gates 
The camels make their moan. 

All this is mine, as I lie dreaming here, 

High on the windy terrace, day by day; 

And mine the children’s laughter, sweet and clear, 
Ringing across the bay. 

For me the clouds ; the ships sail by for me; 

For me the petulant sea-gull takes its flight; 

And mine the tender moonrise on the sea, 

And hollnw sa v es 0 f night. 




SARGENT’S PORTRAIT OF EDWIN BOOTH AT “THE PLAYERS.” 

By Permission of the Author. 



HAT face which no man ever saw 
And from his memory banished quite, 
With eyes in which are Hamlet’s awe 
And Cardinal Richelieu’s subtle light 
Looks from this frame. A master’s hand 
Has set the master-player here, 

In the fair temple * that he planned 
Not for himself. To us most dear 
This image of him ! “ It was thus 
He looked; such pallor touched his cheek ; 

*The club-house in Gramercy Park, New York, was 
named “ The Players.” 


With that same grace he greeted us— 

Nay, ’t is the man, could it but speak !” 

Sad words that shall be said some day— 

Far fall the day ! 0 cruel Time, 

Whose breath sweeps mortal things away, 

Spare long this image of his prime, 

That others standing in the place 
Where, save as ghosts, we come no more, 

May know what sweet majestic face 
The gentle Prince of Players wore! 

the gift of Mr. Booth to the association founded by him ana 













RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 


U 


POET, EDITOR AND REFORMER. 


v 



MONG the current poets of America, few, perhaps, deserve more 
favorable mention than the subject of this sketch. His poetry is 
notable for its purity of sentiment and delicacy of expression. The 
story of his life also is one to stimulate the ambition of youth, who, 
in this cultured age, have not enjoyed the benefits of that college 
training which has come to be regarded as one of the necessary pre¬ 
liminaries to literary aspiration. This perhaps is properly so, that the public may 
not be too far imposed upon by incompetent writers. And while it makes the way 
very hard for him who attempts to scale the walls and force his passage into the 
world of letters—having not this passport through the gateway—it is the more 
indicative of the “ real genius ” that he should assay the task in an heroic effort; 
and, if he succeeds in surmounting them, the honor is all the greater, and the laurel 
wreath is placed with more genuine enthusiasm upon the victor’s brow by an 
applauding public. 

Richard Watson Gilder does not enjoy the distinction of being a college graduate. 
He received his education principally in Bellevue Seminary, Bordentown, New 
Jersey (where he was born February 8, 1844), under the tutelage of his father, Rev. 
Wm. H. Gilder. Mr. Gilder’s intention was to become a lawyer and began to 
study for that profession in Philadelphia ; but the death of his father, in 1864, 
made it necessary for him to abandon law to take up something that would bring 
immediate remuneration. This opportunity was found on the staff of the Newark, 
New Jersey, “ Daily Advertiser,” with which he remained until 1868, when he 
resigned and founded the “ Newark Morning Register,” with Newton Crane as 
joint editor. The next year, Mr. Gilder, then twenty-five years of age, was called 
to New York as editor of “ Hours at Home,” a monthly journal. 

His editorials in “ Hours at Home ” attracted public attention, and some of his 
poems were recognized as possessing superior merit. Dr. G. Holland, editor of 
“ Scribner’s Monthly,” was especially drawn to the rising young poet and when, 
in 1870, it became the “ Century Magazine,” Dr. Holland chose Mr. Gilder as his 
associate editor. On the death of Dr. Holland, in 1881, Mr. Gilder became editor-in- 
chief. Under his able management of its columns the popularity of the “Century” 
has steadily advanced, the contribution of his pen and especially his occasional poems 
adding no small modicum to its high literary standing. His poetic compositions have 
been issued from time to time in book form and comprised several volumes of 

134 





































RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 


135 


poems among which are “ The New Day “ The Poet and His Master“ Lyrics ; ” 
and “ The Celestial Passion.” J 

Aside fiom his literary works, Mr. Gilder has been, in a sense, a politician and 
reformer. By the word politician we do not mean the “ spoils-hunting partisan 
class, . but, like Bryant, from patriotic motives he has been an independent 
champion of those principles which he regards to be the interest of his country and 
mankind at large. He comes by his disposition to mix thus in public affairs 
honestly. His father, before him, was an editor and writer as well as a clergyman. 
Thus “ he was born,” as the saying goes, “ with printer’s ink in his veins.” When 
sixteen years of age (1860) he set up and printed a little paper in New Jersey, 
which became the organ of the Bell and Everett party in that section. Since that 
date he has manifested a lively interest in all public matters, where he considered 
the public good at stake. It was this disposition which forced him to the front in 
the movement for the betterment of the condition of tenement-houses in New York. 
He was pressed into the presidency of the Tenement-House Commission in 1894, 
and through his zeal a thorough inspection was made—running over a period of 
eight months—vastly improving the comfort and health of those who dwell in the 
crowded tenements of New York City. The influence of the movement has done 
much good also in other cities. 

Mr. Gilder also takes a deep interest in education, and our colleges have no 
stauncher friend than he. His address on “ Public Opinion ” has been delivered by 
invitation before Yale, Harvard and Johns Hopkins Universities. We quote a 
paragraph from this address which clearly sets forth his conception of public duty 
as it should be taught by our institutions of learning :— 

“ Who will lift high the standard of a disinterested and righteous public opinion 
if it is not the institutions of learning, great and small, private and public, that are 
scattered throughout our country ? They are the responsible press, and the unsen- 
sational but fearless pulpit—it is these that must discriminate; that must set the 
standard of good taste and good morals, personal and public. They together must 
cultivate fearless leaders, and they must educate and inspire the following that makes 
leadership effectual and saving.” 

As appears from the above Mr. Gilder is a man of exalted ideals. He despises 
sham, hypocrisy and all “ wickedness in high places.” He regards no man with so 
much scorn as he who uses his office or position to defend or shield law-breakers 
and enemies of the public. In his own words,— 

“ He, only, is the despicable one 

Who lightly sells his honor as a shield 
For fawning knaves, to hide them from the sun. 

Too nice for crime yet, coward, he doth yield 
For crime a shelter. Swift to Paradise 
The contrite thief, not Judas with his price!” 



150 


BICHARD WATSON GILDEB. 


SONNET. 


(AFTER THE ITALIAN.) 


f 



From the ( ‘Five Books of Song.” (1894.) The Century Co. 

Like a poor cripple who has lost his crutch 


KNOW not if I love her overmuch ; 

But this I know, that when unto her face 
She lifts her hand, which rests there, still, 
a space, 

Then slowly falls—’tis I who feel that touch. 

And when she sudden shakes her head, with such 
A look, I soon her secret meaning trace. 

So when she runs I think ’tis I who race. 


I am if she is gone ; and when she goes, 

I know not why, for that is a strange art- 

As if myself should from myself depart. 

I know not if I love her more than those 

Who long her light have known ; but for the rose 
She covers in her hair, I’d give my heart. 




THE LIFE MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 


From “For the Country.” (1897.) The Century Co. 



HIS bronze doth keep the very form and 
mold 

Of our great martyr’s face. Yes, this 
is he: 

That brow all wisdom, all benignity; 

That human, humorous mouth ; those cheeks that 
hold 

Like some harsh landscape all the summer’s gold; 
That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea 


For storms to beat on ; the lone agony 
Those silent, patient lips too well foretold. 

Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men 
As might some prophet of the elder day— 
Brooding above the tempest and the fray 
With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken. 
A power was his beyond the touch of art 
Or armed strength—his pure and mighty heart. 


►<>♦— 


SHERIDAN. 


From “ For the Country.” 

UIETLY, like a child 

That sinks in slumber mild, 

No pain or troubled thought his well-earned 
peace to mar, 

Sank into endless rest our thunder-bolt of war. 

Though his the power to smite 
Quick as the lightning’s light,— 

His single arm an army, and his name a host,— 

Not his the love of blood, the warrior’s cruel boast. 

But in the battle’s flame 
How glorious he came !— 

Even like a white-combed wave that breaks and 
tears the shore, 

While wreck lies strewn behind, and terror flies before. 

’Twas he,—his voice, his might,— 

Could stay the panic flight, 

Alone shame back the headlong, many-leagued retreat, 
And turn to evening triumph morning’s foul defeat. 


(1897.) The Century Co. 

He was our modern Mars; 

Yet firm his faith that wars 
Ere long would cease to vex the sad, ensanguined earth, 
And peace forever reign, as at Christ’s holy birth. 

Blest land, in whose dark hour 
Arise to loftiest power 

No dazzlers of the sword to play the tyrant’s part, 
But patriot-soldiers, true and pure and high of heart! 

Of such our chief of all; 

And he who broke the wall 
Of civil strife in twain, no more to build or mend ; 
And he who hath this day made Death his faithful 
friend. 

And now aboye his tomb 
From out the eternal gloom 
“ Welcome ! ” his chiftain’s voice sounds o’er the 
cannon’s knell; 

And of the three one only stays to say “ Farewell! ” 


































RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 


137 


SUNSET FROM THE TRAIN* 


From “Five Boohs of Song ” (1894). 


UT then the sunset smiled, 

Smiled once and turned toward dark, 
Above the distant, wavering line of trees 
that filed 
Along the horizon’s edge ; 

Like hooded monks that hark 
Through evening: air 

O O 

The call to prayer ;—■ 

Smiled once, and faded slow, slow, slow away; 

When, like a changing dream, the long cloud- 
wedge, 

Brown-gray, 

Grew saffron underneath and, ere I knew, 

The interspace, green-blue— 



The whole, illimitable, western, skyey shore, 

The tender, human, silent sunset smiled once more. 

Thee, absent loved one, did I think on now, 
Wondering if thy deep brow 
In dreams of me were lifted to the skies, 

Where, by our far sea-home, the sunlight dies; 

If thou didst stand alone, 

Watching the day pass slowly, slow, as here, 

But closer and more dear, 

Beyond the meadow and the long, familiar line 
Of blackening pine; 

When lo ! that second smile ;—dear heart, it was 
thine own. 


-- 

“0 SILVER RIVER FLOWING TO THE SEA.”* 
From “ Five Books of Song ” (1894). 


SILVER river flowing to the sea, 

Strong, calm, and solemn as thy moun¬ 
tains be! 

Poets have sung thy ever-living power, 
Thy wintry day, and summer sunset hour; 

Have told how rich thou art, how broad, how deep, 
What commerce thine, how many myriads reap 
The harvest of thy waters. They have sung 
Thy moony nights, when every shadow flung 
From cliff or pine is peopled with dim ghosts 
Of settlers, old-world fairies, or the hosts 
Of savage warriors that once plowed thy waves— 
Now hurrying to the dance from hidden graves; 

The waving outline of thy wooded mountains, 


Thy populous towns that stretch from forest fountains 
On either side, far to the salty main, 

Like golden coins alternate on a chain. 

Thou pathway of the empire of the North, 

Thy praises through the earth have traveled forth ! 

I hear thee praised as one who hears the shout 
That follows when a hero from the rout 
Of battle issues, “ Lo, how brave is he, 

How noble, proud, and beautiful!” But she 
Who knows him best—“ How tender !” So thou art 
The river of love to me! 

—Heart of my heart, 

Dear love and bride—is it not so indeed ?— 

Among your treasures keep this new-plucked reed. 





“THERE IS NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN.”* 
From “ Five Boohs of Song ” (1894). 


IE is nothing new under the sun; 
There is no new hope or despair; 
te agony just begun 
Is as old as the earth and the air. 
My secret soul of bliss 

Is one with the singing stars, 

And the ancient mountains miss 
No hurt that my being mars. 

I know as I know my life, 

I know as I know my pain, 


That there is no lonely strife, 

That he is mad who would gain 
A separate balm for his woe, 

A single pity and cover ; 

The one great God I know 

Hears the same prayer over and over. 

I know it because at the portal 
Of Heaven I bowed and cried, 

And I said : “ Was ever a mortal 
Thus crowned and crucified 1 



* Copyright, The Century Co. 























138 


RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 


My praise thou hast made my blame; 

My best thou hast made my worst; 
My good thou hast turned to shame; 
My drink is a flaming thirst.” 

But scarce my prayer was said 
Ere from that place I turned; 


I trembled, I hung my head, 

My cheek, shame-smitten, burned; 
For there where I bowed down 
In my boastful agony, 

I thought of thy cross and crown—- 
0 Christ! I remembered thee. 


-♦O#—■ 


MEMORIAL DAY * 

From “ Five Books of Song ” (1894). 



HE saw the bayonets flashing in the sun, 
The flags that proudly waved; she heard 
the bugles calling; 

She saw the tattered banners falling 
About the broken staffs, as one by one 
The remnant of the mighty army passed; 

And at the last 

Flowers for the graves of those whose fight was done. 

She heard the tramping of ten thousand feet 
As the long line swept round the crowded square; 
She heard the incessant hum 


That filled the warm and blossom-scented air— 

The shrilling fife, the roll and throb of drum, 

The happy laugh, the cheer. Oh glorious and meet 
To honor thus the dead, 

Who chose the better part, 

Who for their country bled ! 

—The dead ! Great God ! she stood there in the 
street, 

Living, yet dead in soul and mind and heart— 

While far away 

His grave was decked with flowers by strangers’ hands 
to-day. 


►O*- 


A WOMAN’S THOUGHT* 
From u Five Books of Song ” (1894). 



AM a woman—therefore I may not 
Call; him, cry to him, 

Fly to him, 

Bid him delay not! 


And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet; 
Still as a stone— 

All silent and cold. 

If my heart riot— 

Crush and defy it! 

Should I grow bold, 

Say one dear thing to him, 

All my life fling to him, 

Cling to him— 

What to atone 
Is enough for my sinning! 

This were the cost to me, 

This were my winning — 

That he were lost to me. 


Not as a lover 
At last if he part from me, 
Tearing my heart from me, 
Hurt beyond cure— 

Calm and demure 
Then must I hold me, 

In myself fold me, 

Lest he discover; 

Showing no sign to him 
By look of mine to him 
What he has been to me— 
How my heart turns to him, 
Follows him, yearns to him, 
Prays him to love me. 


Pity me, lean to me, 
Thou God above me ! 


♦Copyright, The Century Co. 


















JOHN HAY. 



AUTHOR OF “LITTLE BREECHES.” 

SIDE from General Lew Wallace and Edmund Clarence Stedman few 
business men or politicians have made a brighter mark in literature 
than the subjcet of this sketch. 

John Hay was born at Salem, Indiana, October 8th, 1838. He 
was graduated at Brown’s University at the age of twenty, studied 
law and began to practice at Springfield, Illinois, in 1861. Soon 
after this he was made private secretary of President Lincoln, which position he 
filled throughout the latter’s administration. He also acted as Lincoln’s adjutant 
and aid-de-camp, and it was in consequence of this that he was brevetted colonel. 
He also saw service under Generals Hunter and Gilmore as major and assistant 
adjutant general. After the close of the war Mr. Hay was appointed United 
States Secrectary of Legation at Paris, serving in this capacity from 1865 to 1867, 
when he was appointed charge d'affaires , where he served for two years, being 
removed to take a position as Secretary of Legation at Madrid, where he remained 
until 1870, at which time he returned to the United States and accepted an editorial 
position on the “New York Tribune.” This he resigned and removed to Cleveland, 
Ohio, in 1875, where he entered politics, taking an active part in the presidential 
campaigns of 1876, 1880 and 1884. Under President Hayes he was appointed as 
first assistant Secretary of State, which position he filled for nearly three years, and 
has made his home at Washington since that date. On March 17th, Mr. Hay was 
appointed by President McKinley as ambassador to Great Britian, where he was 
accorded the usual hearty welcome tendered by the British to American ambassa¬ 
dors, many of whom during the past fifty years having been men of high literary 
attainment. Shortly after Mr. Hay’s arrival he was called upon to deliver an 
address at the unveiling of the Walter Scott monument, in which he did his country 
credit and maintained his own reputation as an orator and a man of letters. 

As an author Mr. Hay’s first published works were the “Pike County Ballads 
and Other Pieces” (187i), “Castilian Days” (1871), “Poems” (1890), and, (in 
conjunction with Mr. Nicolay), “Abraham Lincoln: a History,” which is regarded 
as the authoritative biography of Mr. Lincoln. This was first published in serial 
form in the “Century Magazine” from 1887 to 1889. Colonel Hay has also been 
a frequent contributor to high class periodicals, and to him has been ascribed the 
authorship of the anonymous novel “The Bread Winners,” which caused such 

agitation in labor circles a few years ago. 

139 

























?40 


JOHN HAY. 


Like many authors, Mr. Hay came into popularity almost by accident. Cer¬ 
tainly he had no expectation of becoming prominent when he wrote his poem 
“Little Breeches;” yet that poem caused him to be remembered by a wider class of 
readers, perhaps, than anything else he has contributed to literature. The follow¬ 
ing account of how this poem came to be written was published after Mr. Hay’s 
appointment to the Court of St. Janies in 1897. The statement is given as made by 
Mr. A. L. Williams, an acquaintance of Mr. Hay, who lives in Topeka, Kansas, 
and knows the circumstances. “The fact is,” says Mr. Williams, “the poem ‘Little 
Breeches’ and its reception by the American people make it one of the most 
humorous features of this day. It was written as a burlesque, and for no other 
purpose. Bret Harte had inaugurated a maudlin literature at a time when the 
Titery’ people of the United States were affected with hysteria. Under the inspira¬ 
tion of his genius, to be good was commonplace, to be virtuous was stupid—only 
gamblers, murderers and women of ill fame were heroic. Crime had reached its 
apotheosis. John Hay believed that ridicule would help cure this hysteria, and 
thus believing, wrote the burlesque, ‘ Little Breeches.’ Wanting to make the burles¬ 
que so broad that the commonest intellect could grasp it, he took for his hero an 
unspeakably wretched brat whom no angel would touch unless to drop over the 
walls into Tophet, and made him the object of a special angelic miracle. 

“Well, John sprung his ‘Little Breeches’ and then sat back with his mouth wide 
open to join in the laugh which he thought it would evoke from his readers. To his 
intense astonishment, people took it seriously, and instead of laughing Bret Harte 
out of the field, immediately made John Hay a formidable rival to that gentleman,” 

Next to “Little Breeches ” the poem “Jim Bludso,” perhaps, contributed most to 
Mr. Hay’s reputation. Both of these selections will be found in the succeeding pages. 


*<>*■ 


LITTLE BREECHES. 


DON’T go much on religion, 

I never ain’t had no show ; 

But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir, 
On the handful o’ things I know. 

I don’t pan out on the prophets 

And free-will, and that sort of thing— 
But I b'lieve in God and the angels, 

Ever sence one night last spring. 

I come into town with some turnips, 

And my little Gabe come along— 

No four-year-old in the county 

Could heat him for pretty and strong, 
Peart and chipper and sassy, 

Always ready to swear and fight— 

And I'd learnt him to chaw terbacker 
Jest to keep his milk-teeth white. 



They scared at something and started— 
I heard one little squall, 

And hell-to-split over the prairie 

Went team, Little Breeches and all. 

Hell-to-split over the prairie ; 

I was almost froze with skeer ; 

But we rousted up some torches, 

And searched for ’em far and near. 

At last we struck hosses and wagon, 
Snowed under a soft white mound, 
Upsot—dead beat—but of little Gabe 
No hide nor hair was found. 

And here all hope soured on me, 

Of my fellow-critters’ aid, 

I jest flopped down on my marrowbones, 
Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed. 


The snow come down like a blanket 
As I passed by Taggart’s store; 
I went in for a jug of molasses 
And left the team at the door. 


By this, the torches was played out, 
And me and Isrul Parr 
Went off for some wood to a sheepfold 
That he said was somewhar thar. 



















JOHN HAY. 


14i 


We found it at last, and a little shed 

\\ here they shut up the lambs at night, 
We looked in and seen them huddled thar, 
So warm and sleepy and white ; 

And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped, 
As peart as ever you see, 

“ I want a chaw of terbacker, 

An’ that’s what’s the matter of me.” 


How did he git thar ? Angels. 

He could never have walked in that storm; 
They jest scooped down and toted him 
To whar it was safe and warm. 

And I think that saving a little child, 

An’ fotching him to his own, 

Is a derned sight better business 
Than loafing around the Throne. 


-•O* 


JIM BLUDSO * 

OF “ THE PRAIRIE BELLE.” 




ALL, no; I can’t tell you whar he lives, 
Because he don’t live, you see ; 
Leastways, lie’s got out of the habit 
Of livin’ like you and me. 

Whar have you been for the last three yeai 
That you haven’t heard folks tell 
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks 
The night of the Prairie Belle ? 

He weren’t no saint—them engineers 
Is all pretty much alike— 

One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, 

And another one here, in Pike ; 

A keerless man in his talk was Jim, 

And an awkward hand in a row, 

But he never flunked, and he never lied— 

I reckon he never knowed how. 

And this was all the religion he had— 

To treat his engine well; 

Never be passed on the river ; 

To mind the pilot’s bell; 

And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire— 

A thousand times he swore, 

He’d hold her nozzle agin the bank 
Till the last soul got ashore. 

All boats has their day on the Mississip, 

And her day come at last— 

The Movastar was a better boat, 

But the Belle she wouldn’t be passed, 


And so she come tearin’ along that night— 

The oldest craft on the line— 

With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, 

And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. 

A fire burst out as she dared the bar, 

And burnt a hole in the night, 

And quick as a flash she turned, and made 
For that willer-bank on the right. 

There was runnin’, and cursin’, but Jim yelled out, 
Over all the infernal roar, 

“ I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank 
Till the last galoot’s ashore.” 

Through the hot black breath of the burnin’ boat 
Jim Bludso’s voice was heard, 

And they all had trust in his cussedness, 

And knowed he would keep his word, 

And, sure's you’re born, they all got off 
Afore the smokestacks fell— 

And Bludso’s ghost went up alone 
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. 

He weren’t no saint; but at judgment 
I’d run my chance with Jim, 

’Longside some pious gentlemen 

That wouldn’t shook hands with him. 

He seen his duty—a dead-sure thing— 

And went for it thar and then ; 

And Christ ain’t a-going to be too hard 
On a man that died for men. 





HOW IT HAPPENED* 



PRAY your pardon, Elsie, 

And smile that frown away 
That dims the light of your lovely face 
As a thunder-cloud the day, 


I really could not help it,— 

Before I thought, it was done,— 

And those great grey eyes flashed bright and cold, 
Like an icicle in the sun. 


* Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 




















142 


JOHN HAY. 


I was thinking of the summers 
When we were boys and girls, 

And wandered in the blossoming; woods, 

And the gay wind romped with her curls. 

And you seemed to me the same little girl 
I kissed in the alder-path, 

I kissed the little girl’s lips, and alas ! 

I have roused a woman’s wrath. 

There is not so much to pardon,— 

For why were your lips so red ? 

The blonde hair fell in a shower of gold 
From the proud, provoking head. 

And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyes 
And played round the tender mouth, 

Rushed over my soul like a warm sweet wind 
That blows from the fragrant South. 


And where after all is the harm done ? 

I believe we were made to be gay, 

And all of youth not given to love 
Is vainly squandered away, 

And strewn through life’s low labors, 

Like gold in the desert sands, 

Are love’s swift kisses and sighs and vows 
And the clasp of clinging hands. 

And when you are old and lonely, 

In memory’s magic shrine 
You will see on your thin and wasting hands, 
Like gems, these kisses of mine. 

And when you muse at evening 

At the sound of some vanished name, 

The ghost of my kisses shall touch your lips 
And kindle your heart to flame. 







JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 

“the hoosier poet.” 


poet of the modern times has obtained a greater popularity with the 
masses than the Indianian, James Whitcomb Riley, who has recently 
obtained the rank of a National Poet, and whose temporary hold 
upon the people equals, if it does not exceed, that of any living 
verse writer. The productions of this author have crystallized 
certain features of life that will grow in value as time goes by. 
In reading “The Old Swimmin’ Hole,” one almost feels the cool refreshing water 
touch the thirsty skin. And such Doems as “Griggsby’s Station,” “Airly Days,” 
“When the Frost is on the Punkin, v ' “That Old Sweetheart of Mine,” and others, 
go straight to the heart of the reader with a mixture of pleasant recollections, ten¬ 
derness, humor, and sincerity, that is most delightful in its effect. 

Mr. Riley is particularly a poet of the country people. Though he was not 
raised on a farm himself, he had so completely imbibed its atmosphere that his 
readers would scarcely believe he was not the veritable Benjamin F. Johnston, the 
simple-hearted Boone County farmer, whom he honored with the authorship of his 
early poems. To every man who has been a country boy and “played hookey” on 
the school-master to go swimming or fishing or bird-nesting or stealing water-melons, 
or simply to lie on the orchard grass, many of Riley’s poems come as an echo from 
his own experiences, bringing a vivid and pleasingly melodious retrospect of the past. 

Mr. Riley’s “Child Verses” are equally as famous. There is an artless catching 
sing-song in his verses, not unlike the jingle of the “Mother Goose Melodies.” 
Especially fine in their faithfulness to child-life, and in easy rytlim, are the pieces 
describing “Little Orphant Annie” and “The Raggedy Man. 

An’ Little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, 

An’ the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! 

An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray, 

An’ the lightnin’-bug in dew is all squenched away, - 
You better mind yer parents and yer teacher fond an’ dear, 

An’ cherish them ’at loves you and dry the orphant’s tear, 

An’ he’p the poor an’ needy ones ’at cluster all about, 

Er the gobble-uns ’ll git you 

Ef you—don’t— watch —-out. 

James Whitcomb Riley was born in Greenfield, Indiana, in 1853. His father 
was a Quaker, and a leading attorney of that place, and desired to make a lawyer 






























144 


JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 


of his son; but Mr. Riley tells us, “Whenever I picked up ‘Blackstone’ or ‘Green- 
leaf/ my wits went to wool-gathering, and my father was soon convinced that his hopes 
of my achieving greatness at the bar were doomed to disappointment.” Referring to 
his education, the poet further says, “ I never had much schooling, and what I did 
get, I believe did me little good. I never could master mathematics, and history 
was a dull and juiceless thing to me; but I always was fond of reading in a random 
way, and took naturally to the theatrical. I cannot remember when I was not a 
declaimer, and I began to rhyme almost as soon as I could talk.” 

Riley’s first occupation was as a sign painter for a patent-medicine man, with 
whom he traveled fora year. On leaving this employment he organized a company 
of sign painters, with whom he traveled over the country giving musical entertain¬ 
ments and painting signs. In referring to this he says, “All the members of the 
company were good musicians as well as painters, and we used to drum up trade 
with our music. We kept at it for three or four years, made plenty of money, had 
lots of fun, and did no harm to ourselves or any one else. Of course, during this 
sign painting period, I was writing verses all the time, and finally after the Graphic 
Company’s last trip I secured a position on the weekly paper at Anderson.” For 
many years Riley endeavored to have his verses published in various magazines, 
“ sending them from one to another,” he says, “ to get them promptly back again.” 
Finally, he sent some verses to the poet Longfellow, who congratulated him warmly, 
as did also Mr. Lowell, to whose “ New England Dialectic Poems ” Mr. Riley’s 
“ Hoosier Rhymes” bore a striking resemblance. From this time forward his 
success was assured, and, instead of hunting publishers, he has been kept more than 
busy in supplying their eager demands upon his pen. 

Mr. Riley’s methods of work are peculiar to himself. His poems are composed 
as he travels or goes about the streets, and, once they are thought out, he immediately 
stops and transfers them to paper. But he must work as the mood or muse moves 
him. He cannot be driven. On this point he says of himself, “ It is almost impos¬ 
sible for me to do good work on orders. If I have agreed to complete a poem at a 
certain time, I cannot do it at all; but when I can write without considering the 
future, I get along much better.” He further says, with reference to writing dialect, 
that it is not his preference to do so. He prefers the recognized poetic form ; “but,” 
he adds, “ dialectic verse is natural and gains added charm from its very common¬ 
placeness. If truth and depiction of nature are wanted, and dialect is a touch of 
nature, then it should not be disregarded. I follow nature as closely as I can, and 
try to make my people think and speak as they do in real life, and such success as 
I have achieved is due to this.” 

The first published work of the author was “The Old Swimmin’ Hole” and 
“’Leven More Poems,” which appeared in 1883. Since that date he published a 
number of volumes. Among the most popular may be mentioned, “ Armazindy,” 
which contains some of his best dialect and serious verses, including the famous Poe 
Poem, “ Leonainie,” written and published in early life as one of the lost poems of 
Poe, and on which he deceived even Poe’s biographers, so accurate was he in 
mimicking the style of the author of the “Raven; ” “Neighborly Poems;” “Sketches 
in Prose,” originally published as “The Boss Girl and Other Stories;” “After¬ 
whiles,” comprising sixty-two poems and sonnets, serious, pathetic, humorous and 

























































































. 











































WELL-KNOWN WESTERN POETS 

























JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 


145 


dialectic; “ Pipes O’ Pan,” containing five sketches and fifty poems; “ Rhymes 
of Childhood;” “Plying Islands of the Night,” a weird and grotesque drama in 
verse; “ Green Fields and Running Brooks,” comprising one hundred and two 
poems and sonnets, dialectic, humorous and serious. 

The poet has never married. He makes his home in Indianapolis, Indiana, with 
his sister, where his surroundings are of the most pleasant nature ; and he is scarcely 
less a favorite with the children of the neighborhood than was the renowned child 
poet, Eugene Field, at his home. The devotion of Mr. Riley to his aged parents, 
whose last days he made the happiest and brightest of their lives, has been repeatedly 
commented upon in the current notices of the poet. Mr. Riley has personally met 
more of the American people, perhaps, than any other living poet. He is constantly 
“on the wing.” For about eight months out of every twelve for the past several 
years he has been on the lecture platform, and there are few of the more intelligent 
class of people in the leading cities of America, who have not availed themselves, 
at one time or another, to the treat of listening to his inimitable recitation of his 
poems. His short vacation in the summer—“his loafing days,” as he calls them— 
are spent with his relatives, and it is on these occasions that the genial poet is found 
at his best. 


A BOY’S MOTHER* 


FROM “ POEMS HERE AT HOME.” 


Y mother she’s so'good to me, 

Ef I wuz good as I could be, 

I couldn’t be as good—no, sir !— 
Can’t any boy be good as her ! 

She loves me when I’m glad er sad ; 
She loves me when I’m good er bad; 
An’, what’s a funniest thing, she says 
She loves me when she punishes. 

I don’t like her to punish me.— 

That don’t hurt,—but it hurts to see 



Her cry in’.—Nen I cry; an’ nen 
We loth cry an’ be good again. 

She loves me when she cuts an’ sews 
My little cloak an’ Sund’y clothes; 
An’ when my Pa comes home to tea, 
She loves him most as much as me. 

She laughs an’ tells him all I said, 
An’ grabs me an’ pats my head; 

An’ I hug her, an’ hug my Pa, 

An’ love him purt’-nigh much as Ma. 


THOUGHTS ON THE LATE WAR* 


FROM “ POEMS HERE AT HOME.” 



WAS for Union—you, ag’in’ it. 

’Pears like, to me, each side was winner, 
Lookin’ at now and all ’at’s in it. 

Le’ ’s go to dinner. 


The war, you know, ’s all done and ended, 

And ain’t changed no p’ints o’ the compass *, 
Both North and South the health’s jes’ splendid 
As ’fore the rumpus. 


Le’ ’s kind o’ jes’ set down together 
And do some pardnership forgittin’— 
Talk, say, for instance, ’bout the weather 
Or somepin’ fittin’. 


The old farms and the old plantations 
Still ockipies the’r old positions. 

Le’ ’s git back to old situations 

And old ambitions. 


# By Permission of the Century Co. 

10 P H 






















146 


JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 


Le’ ’s let up on this blame’, infernal 
Tongue-lashin’ and lap-jacket vauntin’ 
And git back home to the eternal 

Ca’m we’re a-wantin’. 


Peace kind o’ sort o’ suits my diet— 
When women does my cookin’ for me, 
Tlier’ was n’t overly much pie et 
Durin’ the army. 


OUR HIRED GIRL* 

FROM “ POEMS HERE AT HOME.” 


UR hired girl, she’s ’Lizabuth Ann ; 

An’ she can cook best things to eat! 

She ist puts dough in our pie-pan, 

An’ pours in somepin’ ’at’s good an’ 
sweet; 

An’ nen she salts it all on top 
With cinnamon; an’ nen she ’ll stop 
An’ stoop an’ slide it, ist as slow, 

In th’ old cpok-stove, so’s’t wont slop 
An’ git all spilled ; nen bakes it, so 
It’s custard-pie, first thing you know! 

An’ nen she ’ll say, 

“ Clear out o’ my way! 

They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play! 

Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run! 

Er I cain’t git no cookin’ done ! ” 

When our hired girl ’tends like she’s mad, 

An’ says folks got to walk the chalk 
When she's around, er wisht they had! 

I play out on our porch an’ talk 
To th’ Raggedy Man ’t mows our lawn; 

An’ he says, “ Whew ! ” an’ nen leans on 
His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes, 

- *o+- 



An’ sniffs all ’round an’ says, “ I swawn! 

Ef my old nose don’t tell me lies, 

It ’pears like I smell custard-pies ! ” 

An’ nen he 'll say, 

“ Clear out o’ my way ! 

They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play! 
Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run! 

Er she cain’t git no cookin’ done ! ” 

Wunst our hired girl, when she 
Got the supper, an’ we all et, 

An’ it wuz night, an’ Ma an’ me 

An’ Pa went wher’ the “ Social ” met,— 
An’ nen when we come home, an’ see 
A light in the kitchen-door, an’ we 
Heerd a maccordeun, Pa says, “ Lan’- 
O’-Gracious ! who can her beau be ?” 

An’ I marched in, an’ ’Lizabuth Ann 
Wuz parchin’ corn fer the Raggedy Man 1 
Better say, 

“ Clear out o’ the way ! 

They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play! 
Take the hint, an’ run, child, run ! 

Er we cain’t git no courtin’ done! ” 


THE RAGGEDY MAN* 

FROM “ POEMS HERE AT HOME. 


THE Raggedy Man ! He works fer Pa; 
An’ he’s the goodest man ever you saw! 
He comes to our house every day, 

An’ waters the horses, an’ feeds ’em hay; 
An’ he opens the shed—an’ we all ist laugh 
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf; 

An’ nen—ef our hired girl says he can— 

He milks the cow fer ’Lizabuth Ann.— 

Ain’t he a’ awful good Raggedy Man ? 

Raggedy ! Raggedy ! Raggedy Man! 

W’y, the Raggedy Man—he’s ist so good, 

He splits the kindlin’ an’ chops the wood; 

An’ nen he spades in our garden, too, 

An’ does most things’t hoys can’t do.— 

He clumbed clean up in our big tree 
An’ shooked a’ apple down fer me— 

An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer ’Lizabuth Ann— 

An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer the Raggedy Man.— 

Ain’t he a’ awful kind Raggedy Man ? 

Raggedy! Raggedy ! Raggedy Man ! 


An’ the Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes, 

An’ tells ’em, ef I be good, sometimes: 

Knows ’bout Giunts, an’ Griffuns, an’ Elves, 

An’ the Squidgicum-Squees ’at swallers therseive^! 
An’, wite by the pump in our pasture-lot, 

He showed me the hole ’at the Wunks is got, 

’At lives ’way deep in the ground, an’ can 
Turn into me, er ’Lizabuth Ann ! 

Ain’t he a funny old Raggedy Man ? 

Raggedy ! Raggedy ! Raggedy Man ! 

The Raggedy Man—one time, when he 
Wuz makin’ a little bow’-n’-orry fer me, 

Says, “ When you ’re big like your Pa is, 

Air you go’ to keep a fine store like his— 

An’ be a rich merchunt—an’ wear fine clothes?—= 
Er what air you go’ to be, goodness knows?” 

An’ nen he laughed at ’Lizabuth Ann, 

An’ I says, “ ’M go’ to be a Raggedy Man!— 

I ’m ist go’ to be a nice Raggedy Man! ” 
Raggedy ! Raggedy ! Raggedy Man I 


*By permission of The Century Co. 


















FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 


THE POET OF THE MINING CAMP AND THE WESTERN MOUNTAINS. 


E turbulent mining camps of California, with their vicious hangers- 
on, have been embalmed for future generations by the unerring 
genius of Bret Harte, who sought to reveal the remnants of honor 
in man, and loveliness in woman, despite the sins and vices of the 
mining towns of our Western frontier thirty or forty years ago. His 
writings have been regarded with disfavor by a religious class of 
readers because of the frequent occurrence of rough phrases and even profanity 
which he employs in his descriptions. It should be remembered, however, that a 
faithful portrait of the conditions and people which he described could hardly have 
been presented in more polite language than that employed. 

Bret Harte was born in Albany, New York, in 1839. His father was a scholar 
of ripe culture, and a teacher in the Albany Female Seminary. He died poor when 
Bret was quite young, consequently the education of his son was confined to the 
common schools of the city. When only seventeen years of age, young Harte, 
with his widowed mother, emigrated to California. Arriving in San Francisco he 
walked to the mines of Sonora and there opened a school which he taught for a 
short time. Thus began his self-education in the mining life which furnished the 
material for his early literature. After leaving his school lie became a miner, and 
at odd times learned to set type in the office of one of the frontier papers. He wrote 
sketches of the strange life around him, set them up in type himself, and offered the 
proofs to the editor, believing that in this shape they would be more certain of 
acceptance. His aptitude with his pen secured him a position on the paper, and in 
the absence of the editor he once controlled the journal and incurred popular wrath 
for censuring a little massacre of Indians by the leading citizens ol the locality, 
which came near bringing a mob upon him. 

The young adventurer,—for he was little else at this time,—also served as mounted 
messenger of an express company and as express agent in several mountain towns, 
which gave him a full knowledge of the picturesque features of mining life. In 
1857 he returned to San Francisco and secured a position as compositor on a weekly 
literary journal. Here again he repeated his former trick of setting up and sub¬ 
mitting several spirited sketches of mining life in type. These were accepted and 
soon earned him an editorial position on the “Gulden Era. After this he made 
many contributions to the daily papers and his tales of Western life began to attract 
attention in the East. In 1858, he married, which put an end to his wanderings. 

147 






























148 


FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 


He attempted to publish a newspaper of his own, “The Californian,” which was 
bright and worthy to live, but failed for want of proper business management. 

In 1864 Mr. Harte was appointed Secretary of the United States Branch Mint at 
San Francisco, and during his six years of service in this position found leisure to 
write some of his popular poems, such as “ John Burns, of Gettysburg,” “ How Are 
You, Sanitary ? ” and others, which were generally printed in the daily newspapers. 
He also became editor of the “ Overland Monthly ” when it was founded in 1868, 
and soon made this magazine as great a favorite on the Atlantic as on the Pacific 
Coast, by his contribution to its columns of a series of sketches of California life 
which have won a permanent place in literature. Among these sketches are “ The 
Luck of Boaring Camp,” telling how a baby came to rule the hearts of a rough, 
dissolute gang of miners. It is said that this masterpiece, however, narrowly 
escaped the waste-basket at the hands of the proofreader, a woman, who, without 
noticing its origin, regarded it as utter trash. “The Outcast of Poker Flat,” 
“ Miggles,” “Tennessee’s Partner,” “An Idyl of Bed Gulch,” and many other 
stories which revealed the spark of humanity remaining in brutalized men and 
women, followed in rapid succession. 

Bret Harte was a man of the most humane nature, and sympathized deeply with 
the Indian and the Chinaman in the rough treatment they received at the hands of the 
early settlers, and his literature, no doubt, did much to soften and mollify the actions 
of those who read them—and it may be safely said that almost every one did, as he 
was about the only author at that time on the Pacific Slope and very popular. His 
poem, “ The Heathen Chinee,” generally called “Plain Language from Truthful 
James,” was a masterly satire against the hue and cry that the Chinese were shiftless 
and weak-minded settlers. This poem appeared in 1870 and was wonderfully 
popular. 

In the spring of 1871 the professorship of recent literature in the University of 
California was offered to Mr. Harte, on his resignation of the editorship of the 
“Overland Monthly,” but he declined the proffer to try his literary fortunes in the 
more cultured East. He endeavored to found a magazine in Chicago, but his efforts 
failed, and he went to Boston to accept a position on the “ Atlantic"Monthly,” since 
which time his pen has been constantly employed by an increasing demand from 
various magazines and literary journals. Mr. Harte has issued many volumes of 
prose and poetry, and it is difficult to say in which field he has won greater distinc¬ 
tion. Both as a prose writer and as a poet he has treated similar subjects with equal 
facility. His reputation was made, and his claim to fame rests upon his intuitive 
insight into the heart of our common humanity. A number of his sketches have 
been translated into French and German, and of late years he has lived much 
abroad, where he is, if any difference, more lionized than he was in his native 
country. 

From 1878 to 1885 Mr. Harte was United States Consul successively to Crefield 
and Glasgow. Ferdinand Freiligraph, one of his German translators, and himself 
a poet, pays this tribute to his peculiar excellence: 

“ Nevertheless he remains what he is—the Californian and the gold-digger. But 
the gold for which he has dug, and which he found, is not the gold in the bed of 
rivers—not the gold in veins of mountains; it is the gold of love, of goodness, of 


















FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 


149 


fidelity, of humanity, which even in rude and wild hearts—even under the rubbish 
of vices and sins—remains forever uneradicated from the human heart. That lie 
there searched for this gold, that lie found it there and triumphantly exhibited it to 
the world—that is his greatness and his merit.” 

His works as published from 1867 to 1890 include “ Condensed Novels,” 
“Poems,” “The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Sketches,” “East and West 
Poems*” “Poetical Works,” “Mrs. Skaggs’ Husbands,” “Echoes of the Foothills,” 
“Tales of the Argonauts,” “Gabriel Conroy,” “Two Men of Sandy Bar,” “Thankful 
Blossom,” “Story of a Mine,” “Drift from Two Shores,” “The Twins of Table 
Mountain and Other Stories,” “In the Carquinez Woods,” “On the Frontier,” “By 
Shore and Ledge,” “Snowbound at Eagles,” “The Crusade of the ExceLior,” “A 
Phyllis of the Sierras.” One of Mr. Harte’s most popular late novels, entitled 
“Three Partners; or, The Big Strike on Heavy Tree Hill,” was published as a serial 
in 1897. Though written while the author was in Europe, the vividness of the 
description and the accurate delineations of the miner character are as strikingly 
real as if it had been produced by the author while residing in the mining country 
of his former Western home. 

--- 


SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS. 



RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name 
is Truthful James; 

I am not up to sniall deceit or any sinful 
games; 

And I’ll tell in simple language what I 
know about the row 

That broke up our Society upon the Stan- 
islow. 


He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown 
And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town. 


Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent 
To say another is an ass,—at least, to all intent; 

Nor should the individual who happens to be meant 
Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent. 


But first, I would remark, that it is not a proper plan 
For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man, 

And, if a member don’t agree with his peculiar whim, 
To lay for that same member for to “ put a head ” on 
him. 

Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see 
Than the first six months’ proceedings of that same 
Society, 

Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones 
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of 
J ones. 

Then Brown, he read a paper, and he reconstructed 
there, 

From those same bones, an animal that was extremely 
rare; 

And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of 
the rules, 

Till he could prove that those same bones was one of 
his lost mules. 

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, an said he was 

at fault, # f 

It seems he had been trespassing on J ones s family 

vault j 


Then Abner Dean, of Angel’s, raised a point of order, 
when 

A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the 
abdomen ; 

And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up 
on the floor, 

And the subsequent proceedings interested him no 
more; 

For, in less time than I write it, every member did 
engage 

In a warfare with the remnants of the palaeozoic age; 

And the way they heaved those fossils, in their anger, 
was a sin, 

’Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head 
of Thompson in. 

And this is all I have to say of these improper games, 

For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truth¬ 
ful James; 

And I’ve told in simple language what I knew about 
the row 

That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. 











150 


FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 


DICKENS IN CAMP. 


BOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting, 
The river sang below ; 

The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 
Their minarets of snow. 

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted 
The ruddy tints of health 

On haggard face and form, that drooped and fainted 
In the fierce race for wealth 



The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, 

Listened in every spray, 

While the whole camp with “ Nell ” on English 
meadows 

Wandered and lost their way. 

And so, in mountain solitudes, o’ertaken 
As by some spell divine, 

Their cares drop from them like the needles shaken 
From out the gusty pine. 


’Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure 
A hoarded volume drew, 

And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure 
To hear the tale anew. 


Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire, 

And he who wrought that spell; 

Ah ! towering pine and stately Kentish spire, 
Ye have one tale to tell ! 


And then, while shadows round them gathered faster, 
And as the firelight fell, 

He read aloud the book wherein the Master 
Had writ of “ Little Nell.” 


Lost is that camp ! but let its fragrant story 
Blend with the breath that thrills 
With hop-vines’ incense, all the pensive glory 
That thrills the Kentish hills; 


Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,—for the reader 
Was the youngest of them all,— 

But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 
A silence seemed to fall. 


And on that grave, where English oak and holly, 
And laurel-wreaths entwine, 

Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, 

This spray of Western pine ! 






















EUGENE FIELD. 

THE CHILDREN’S FRIEND AND POET. 

the fourth day of November, 1895, there was many a sad home in 
the city of Chicago and throughout America. It was on that day 
that Eugene Field, the most congenial friend young children ever 
had among the literary men of America, died at the early age of 
forty-five. The expressions of regard and regret called out on all 
sides by this untimely death, made it clear that the character in 
which the public at large knew and loved Mr. Field best was that of the “Poet of 
Child Life.” What gives his poems their unequaled hold on the j:>opular heart is 
their simplicity, warmth and genuineness. This quality they owe to the fact that 
Mr. Field almost lived in the closest and fondest intimacy with children. He had 
troops of them for his friends and it is said he wrote his child-poems directly under 
their suggestions and inspiration. 

We might fill far more space than is at our command in this volume relating 
incidents which go to show liis fondness for little ones. It is said that on the day 
of his marriage, he delayed the ceremony to settle a quarrel between some urchins 
who were playing marbles in the street. So long did he remain to argue the ques¬ 
tion with them that all might be satisfied, the time for the wedding actually passed 
and when sent for, he was found squatted down among them acting as peace-maker. 
It is also said that on one occasion he was invited by the noted divine, Dr. Gun- 
saulus, to visit his home. The children of the family had been reading Field’s 
poems and looked forward with eagerness to his coming. When he arrived, the 
first question he asked the children, after being introduced to them, was, “Where is 
the kitchen?” and expressed his desire to see it. Child-like, and to the embarrass¬ 
ment of the mother, they led him straight to the cookery where he seized upon the 
remains of a turkey which had been left from the meal, carried it into the dining¬ 
room, seated himself and made a feast with his little friends, telling them quaint 
stories all the while. After this impromptu supper, he spent the remainder of the 
evening singing them lullabies and reciting his verses. Naturally before he went 
away, the children had given him their whole hearts and this was the way with all 
children with whom he came into contact. 

The devotion so unfailing in his relation to children would naturally show itself 
in other relations. His devotion to his wife was most pronounced. In all the world 
she was the only woman he loved and he never wished to be away from her. Often 

151 




































152 


EUGENE FIELD. 


she accompanied him on his reading tours, the last journey they made together 
being in the summer of ’95 to the home of Mrs. Field’s girlhood. "While his wife 
was in the company of her old associates, instead of joining them as they expected, 
he took advantage of her temporary absence, hired a carriage and visited all of the 
old scenes of their early associations during the happy time of their love-making. 

His association with his fellow-workers was equally congenial. No man who had 
ever known him felt the slightest hesitancy in approaching him. He had the happy 
faculty of making them always feel welcome. It was a common happening in 
the Chicago newspaper office for some tramp of a fellow, who had known him in 
the days gone by, to walk boldly in and blurt out, as if confident in the power 
of the name bespoke—“ Is ’Gene Field here? I knew ’Gene Field in Denver, 
or I worked with ’Gene Field on the ‘ Kansas City Times.’ ” These were suffi¬ 
cient passwords and never failed to call forth the cheery voice from Field’s room— 
“ That’s all right, show him in here, lie’s a friend of mine.” 

One of Field’s peculiarities with his own children was to nickname them. 
When his first daughter was born he called her “ Trotty,” and, although she is a 
grown-up woman now, her friends still call her “ Trotty.” The second daughter is 
called “ Pinny ” after the child opera “ Pinafore,” which was in vogue at the time 
she was born. Another, a son, came into the world when everybody was singing 
“ Oh M 3 
“ Daisy.’ 

“ Posy.” 

Eugene Field was born in St. Louis, Missouri, September 2, 1850. Part of his 
early life was passed in Vermont and Massachusetts. He was educated in a univer¬ 
sity in Missouri. From 1873 to 1883 he was connected with various newspapers 
in Missouri and Colorado. He joined the staff of the Chicago “ Daily News ” in 
1883 and removed to Chicago, where he continued to reside until his death, twelve 
years later. Of Mr. Field’s books, “ The Denver Tribune Primer ” was issued in 
1882; “Culture Garden” (1887); “Little Book of Western Friends” (1889); and 
“Little Book of Profitable Tales” (1889). 

Mr. Field was not only a writer of child verses, but wrote some first-class 
Western dialectic verse, did some translating, was an excellent newspaper correspon¬ 
dent, and a critic of no mean ability ; but he was too kind-hearted and liberal to 
chastise a brother severely who did not come up to the highest literary standard. 
He was a hard worker, contributing daily, during his later years, from one to three 
columns to the “ Chicago News,” besides writing more or less for the “ Syndicate 
Press ” and various periodicals. In addition to this, he was frequently traveling, 
and lectured or read from his own writings. Since his death, his oldest daughter, 
Miss Mary French Field (“Trotty”), has visited the leading cities throughout the 
country, delivering readings from her father’s works. The announcement of her 
appearance to read selections from the writings of her genial father is always 
liberally responded to by an appreciative public. 


rl Ain’t She a Daisy.” Naturally this fellow still goes by the name of 
Two other of Mr. Field’s children are known as “ Googhy ” and 



EUGENE FIELD. 


*53 


OUR, TWO OPINIONS* 


S two wuz boys when we fell out— 

Nigh to the age uv my youngest now; 
Don't ree lect what ’twuz about, 

Some small diff’rence, I’ll allow, 

Lived next neighbors twenty years, 

A-hatin’ each other, me ’nd Jim— 

He havin’ his opinyin uv me 

’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him ! 

Grew up together, ’nd wouldn’t speak, 

Courted sisters, and marr’d ’em, too 
’Tended same meetin’ house oncet a week, 

A-hatin’ each other, through ’nd through. 

But when Abe Linkern asked the West 
F’r soldiers, we answered—me ’nd Jim-— 

He havin’ his opinyin uv me 

’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him! 

Down in Tennessee one night, 

Ther was sound uv firin’ fur away, 

’Nd the sergeant allowed ther’d be a fight 

With the Johnnie Rebs some time next dav: 

*/ / 



’Nd as I was thinkin’ of Lizzie ’nd home*. 

Jim stood afore me, long ’nd slim— 

He havin’ his opinyin uv me 

’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him! 

Seemed like we knew there wuz go in’ to be 
Serious trouble f r me ’nd him— 

Us two shuck hands, did Jim ’nd me, 

But never a word from me or Jim! 

He went his way, and I went mine, 

’Nd into the battle’s roar went we— 

I havin’ my opinyin uv Jim 

’Nd he havin’ his opinyin uv me! 

Jim never come back from the war again, 
But I haint forgot that last, last night 
When waitin’ f’r orders, us two men 

Made up and shuck hands, afore the fight; 
’Nd, after it all, it’s soothin’ to know 
That here I be, ’nd yonder’s Jim— 

He havin’ his opinyin uv me 

’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him! 


LULLABY* 


_. 

AIR is the castle up on the hill—• 
Hushaby, sweet my own ! 

The night is fair and the waves are still, 
And the wind is singing to you and me 
In this lowly home beside the sea— 
Hushaby, sw r eet my own ! 

On yonder hill is store of wealth— 

Hushaby, sweet my own ! 

And revellers drink to a little one’s health; 
But you and I bide night and day 
For the other love that has sailed away— 
Hushaby, sweet my own ! 

See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep 
Ghostlike, 0 my own ! 

Out of the mists of the murmuring deep ; 


Oh, see them not and make no cry, 

Till the angels of death have passed us by-~ 
Hushaby, sweet my own ! 

Ah, little they reck of you and me— 
Hushaby, sweet my own ! 

In our lonely home beside the sea ; 

They seek the castle up on the hill, 

And there they will do their ghostly will— 
Hushaby, 0 my own ! 

Here by the sea, a mother croons 
“ Hushaby, sweet my own ; ” 

In yonder castle a mother swoons 

While the angels go down to the misty deep, 

Bearing a little one fast asleep— 

Hushaby, sweet my own ! 



-•o* 


A DUTCH LULLABY * 



YNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one night 
Sailed off in a wooden shoe— 
Sailed on a river of misty light 
Into a sea of dew. 


“ Where are you going, and what do you wish ? ” 
The old moon asked the three. 

“ We have to come to fish for the herring-fish 
That live in this beautiful sea: 


* From “A Little Book ,f Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons. 

























154 


EUGENE FIELD. 


Nets of silver and gold have we, 

Said Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

The old moon laughed and sung a song, 

And they rocked in the wooden shoe, 

And the wind that sped them all night long 
Rutiled the waves of dew; 

The little stars were the herring-fish 
That lived in the beautiful sea; 

“Now cast your nets wherever you wish, 

But never afeared are we ”— 

So cried the stars to the fishermen three, 
Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

All night long their nets they threw 
For the fish in the twinkling foam, 

Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe, 
Bringing the fishermen home. 


’Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed 
As if it could not be; 

And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed 
Of sailing that beautiful sea. 

But I shall name you the fishermen three: 
Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, 

And Nod is a little head, 

And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies 
Is a wee one’s trundle-bed ; 

So shut your eyes while mother sings 
Of wonderful sights that be, 

And you shall see the beautiful things 
As you rock in the misty sea, 

Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three— 
Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 


♦O#- 


THE NORSE LULLABY* 


HE sky is dark and the hills are white 
As the storm-king speeds from the north 
to-night, 

And this is the song the storm-king sings, 
over the world his cloak he flings: 

“ Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep ! ” 
rustles his wings and gruffly sings: 

“ Sleep, little one, sleep ! ” 

On yonder mountain-side a vine 
Clings at the foot of a mother pine; 

The tree bends over the trembling thing 


Western Verse” (1889). 

And only the vine can hear her sing: 

“ Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep— 
What shall you fear when I am here ? 
Sleep, little one, sleep.” 

The king may sing in his bitter flight, 
The tree may croon to the vine to-night, 
But the little snowflake at my breast 
Liketh the song I sing the best: 

“ Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep ; 
Weary thou art, anext my heart, 

Sleep, little one, sleep.” 


From “A Little Book of 



As 

He 


* Copyright, Charles Scribner’s Sons. 











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J-W >ww W- >w «w.M* >m<w<:>m:mi >m< >m< >m>m:.>m: 

4%IP •%,£• '■Zg0 > ^ i>j^ m? iM A A •* * . ® * ••.'-v^^^v^v 



WILL CARLETON. 

AUTHOR OF “ BETSY AND I ARE OUT.” 


W writers of homely verse have been more esteemed than Will 
Carleton. His poems are to be found in almost every book of selec¬ 
tions for popular reading. They are well adapted to recitation and 
are favorites with general audiences. With few exceptions they 
are portraitures of the humorous side of rural life and frontier 
scenes; but they are executed with a vividness and truth to nature 
that does credit to the author and insures their preservation as faithful portraits of 
social conditions and frontier scenes and provincialisms which the advance of educa¬ 
tion is fast relegating to the past. 

Will Carleton was born in Hudson, Michigan, October 21, 1845. His father 
was a pioneer settler who came from New Hampshire. Young Carleton remained 
at home on the farm until he was sixteen years of age, attending the district school 
in the winters and working on the farm during the summers. At the age of six¬ 
teen he became a teacher in a country school and for the next four vears divided his 
time between teaching, attending school and working as a farm-hand, during which 
time he also contributed articles in both prose and verse to local papers. In 1865 
he entered Hillsdale College, Michigan, from which he graduated in 1869. Since 
1870 he has been engaged in journalistic and literary work and has also lectured 
frequently in the West. It was during his early experiences as a teacher in “board¬ 
ing round” that he doubtless gathered the incidents which are so graphically 
detailed in his poems. 

There is a homely pathos seldom equalled in the two selections “Betsy and I Are 
Out” and “How Betsy and I Made Up” that have gained for them a permanent 
place in the affections of the reading public. In other of his poems, like “Makin’ 
an Editor Outen Him,” “A Lightning Rod Dispenser,” “The Christmas Baby,” 
etc., there is a rich vein of humor that has given them an enduring popularity. 
“The First Settler’s Story ” is a most graphic picture of pioneer life, portraying the 
hardships which early settlers frequently endured and in which the depressing 
homesickness often felt for the scenes of their childhood and the far-away East is 
pathetically told. 

Mr. Carleton’s first volume of poems appeared in 1871, and was printed for 
private distribution. “Betsy and I Are Out” appeared in 1872 in the “ loledo 
Blade.” It was copied in “ Harper’s Weekly,” and illustrated. This was really the 
author’s first recognition in literary circles. In 1873 appeared a collection of his 

155 
























WILL CARLETON. 


I5 6 

poems entitled “Farm Ballads,” including the now famous selections, “Out of the 
Old House, Nancy,” “Over the Hills to the Poorhouse,” “Gone With a Handsomer 
Man,” and “How Betsy and I Made Up.” Other well-known volumes by the same 
author are entitled “Farm Legends,” “Young Folk’s Centennial Rhymes,” “Farm 
Festivals,” and “City Ballads.” 

In his preface to the first volume of his poems Mr. Carleton modestly apologizes 
for whatever imperfections they may possess in a manner which gives us some 
insight into his literary methods. “These poems,” he writes, “have been written 
under various, and in some cases difficult, conditions: in the open air, with team 
afield; in the student’s den, with ghosts of unfinished lessons hovering gloomily 
about; amid the rush and roar of railroad travel, which trains of thought are not 
prone to follow; and in the editor’s sanctum, where the dainty feet of the muses ds 
not often deign to tread.” 

But Mr. Carleton does not need to apologize. He has the true poetic instinct. 
His descriptions are vivid, and as a narrative versifier he has been excelled by few, 
if indeed any depicter of Western farm life. 

Will Carleton has also written considerable prose, which has been collected and 
published in book form, but it is his poetical works which have entitled him to 
public esteem, and it is for these that he will be longest remembered in literature. 


BETSY AND I ARE OUT* 


RAW up the papers, lawyer, and make ’em 
good and stout, 

For things at home are cross-ways, and 
Betsy and I are out,— 

We who have worked together so long as 
man and wife 

Must pull in single harness the rest of our 
nat’ral life. 

“ What is the matter,” says you ? I swan it’s hard to 
tell! 

Most of the years behind us we’ve passed by very 
well; 

I have no other woman—she has no other man; 

Only we’ve lived together as long as ever we can. 

So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked 
with me; 

And we’ve agreed together that we can never agree; 

Not that we’ve catched each other in any terrible 
crime; 

We’ve been a gatherin’ this for years, a little at a 
time. 

There was a stock of temper we both had for a start; 

Although we ne’er suspected ’twould take us two 
apartj 



I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone 

And Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of 
her own. 

The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed, 

Was somethin’ concerning heaven—a difference in oui 
creed; 

We arg’ed the thing at breakfast—we arg'ed the 
thins: at tea— 

o 

And the more we arg’ed the question, the more we 
couldn't agree. 

And the next that I remember was when we lost a 
cow; 

She had kicked the bucket, for certain—the question 
was only—How ? 

I held my opinion, and Betsy another had; 

And when we were done a talkin’, we both of us 
was mad. 

And the next that I remember, it started in a joke; 

But for full a week it lasted and neither of us spoke. 

And the next was when I fretted because she broke 
a bowl; 

And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn’t any 
soul. 


♦From “ Farm Ballads.” Copyright 1873, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. 








WILL CARLETON. 


157 


x\nd so the thing kept workin’, and all the self-same 
way; 

Always somethin’ to ar’ge and something sharp to 
say,— 

And down on us came the neighbors, a couple o’ 
dozen strong, 

And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along. 

And there have been days together—and many a 
weary week— 

When both of us were cross and spunky, and both 
too proud to speak ; 

And I have been thinkin’ and tkinkin’, the whole of 
the summer and fall, 

If I can’t live kind with a woman, why, then I won’t 
at all. 

And so I’ve talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked 
with me; 

And we have agreed together that we can never agree ; 

And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall 
be mine; 

And I’ll put it in the agreement, and take it to her 
to sign. 

Write on the paper, lawyer—the very first para¬ 
graph— 

Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her half ; 

For she has helped to earn it through many a weary 

day, 

And it’s nothin’ more than justice that Betsy has her 
pay. 

Give her the house and homestead ; a man can thrive 
and roam, 

But women are wretched critters, unless they have a 
home. 

And I have always determined, and never failed to 
say, 

That Betsy never should want a home, if I was taken 
away. 

There’s a little hard money besides, that’s drawin’ 
tol’rable pay, 

A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day,— 

Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at; 

Put in another clause there, and give her all of that. 


I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin’ her so 
much ; 

Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such ; 
True and fair I married her, when she was blythe 
and young, 

And Betsy was always good to me exceptin’ with her 
tongue. 

When I was young as you, sir, and not so smart, 
perhaps, 

For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other chaps; 
And all of ’em was flustered, and fairly taken down, 
And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in town. 

Once when I had a fever—I won’t forget it soon— 

I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon— 
Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight; 
She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day 
and night. 

« 

And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean, 
Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen, 
And I don’t complain of Betsy or any of her acts, 
Exceptin’ when we’ve quarreled, and told each other 
facts. 

So draw up the paper, lawyer; and I’ll go home to¬ 
night, 

And read the agreement to her, and see if it’s all right; 
And then in the morning I'll sell to a tradin’ man I 
know— 

And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the 
world I’ll go. 

And one thing put in the paper, that first to me 
didn’t occur; 

That when I am dead at last she will bring me back 
to her, 

And lay me under the maple we planted years ago, 
When she and I was happy, before we quarreled so. 

And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me; 
And lyin’ together in silence, perhaps we’ll then agree; 
And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn’t think it 
queer 

If we loved each other the better because we’ve 
quarreled here. 

+ 0 * - 


GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN* 


(from “farm ballads.”) 



John. 

’VE worked in the field all day, a plowin 
the “ stony streak ; ” 

I’ve scolded my team till I’m hoarse; 

I’ve tramped till my legs are weak ; 


I’ve choked a dozen swears, (so’s not to tell Jane 
fibs,) 

When the plow-pint struck a stone, and the handles 
punched my ribs. 


* Copyright, 1873, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. 













158 


WILL CARLETON. 




I’ve put my team in the barn, and rubbed their 
sweaty coats; 

I’ve fed ’em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats; 

And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin’ 
feel, 

And Jane won’t say to-night that I don’t make out a 
meal. 

Well said ! the door is locked ! out here she’s left the 
bey, 

Under the step, in a place known only to her and me ; 

I wonder who’s dyin’ or dead, that she’s hustled off 
pell-mell; 

But here on the table’s a note, and probably this will 
tell. 

* w 

Good God ! my wife is gone ! my wife is gone astray! 

The letter it says, “ Good-bye, for I’m a going away; 

I’ve lived with you six months, John, and so far I’ve 
been true; 

But I’m going away to-day with a handsomer man 
than you.” 

A han’somer man than me! Why, that ain’t much 
to say; 

There’s han’somer men than me go past here every 

day- 

There’s han’somer men than me—I ain’t of the 
han’some kind ; 

But a lovener man than I was, I guess she’ll never 
find. 

Curse her! curse her! I say, and give my curses wings! 

May the words of love I’ve spoken be changed to 
scorpion stings! 

Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my 
heart of doubt, 

And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets my heart’s 
blood out! 

Curse her! curse her! say I, she’ll some time rue 
this day; 

She’ll some time learn that hate is a game that two 
can play; 

And long before she dies she’ll grieve she ever was 
born, 

And I’ll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down 
to scorn. 

As sure as the world goes on, there’ll come a time 
when she 

Will read the devilish heart of that han’somer man 
than me; 

And there’ll be a time when he will find, as others do, 

That she who is false to one, can be the same with 
two. 

^.nd when her face grows pale, and when her eyes 
grow dim, 


And when he is tired of her and she is tired of him, 

She’ll do what she ought to have done, and coolly 
count the cost; 

And then she’ll see things clear, and know what she 
has lost. 

And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in 
her mind, 

And she will mourn and cry for what she has left 
behind ; 

And maybe she’ll sometimes long for me—for me—• 
but no! 

I’ve blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have 
it so. 

And yet in her girlish heart there was somethin’ or 
other she had 

That fastened a man to her, and wasn’t entirely bad ; 

And she loved me a little, I think, although it didn’t 
last; 

But I mustn’t think of these things—I’ve buried ’em 
in the past. 

I’ll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter 
worse; 

She’ll have trouble enough ; she shall not have my 
curse ; 

But I’ll live a life so square—and I well know that I 

can,— 

That she always will sorry be that she went with that 
han’somer man. 

Ah, here is her kitchen dress ! it makes my poor eyes 
blur; 

It seems when I look at that, as if ’twas holdin’ her. 

And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her 
week-day hat, 

And yonder’s her weddin’ gown ; I wonder she didn’t 
take that. 

’Twas only this mornin’ she came and called me her 
“ dearest dear,” 

And said I was makin’ for her a regular paradise 
here; 

0 God ! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell, 

Before you pitch him in just keep him in heaven a 
spell! 

Good-bye! I wish that death had severed us two 
apart. 

You’ve lost a worshiper here, you’ve crushed a lovin’ 
heart. 

I’ll worship no woman again ; but I guess I’ll learn 
to pray, 

And kneel as you used to kneel, before you run away. 

And if I thought I could bring my words on Heaven 
to bear, 







WILL CARLETON. 


159 


And if I thought I had some little influence there, 

I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so, 

As happy and gay as I was a half-hour ago. 

Jane (entering'). 

Why, John, what a litter here ! you’ve thrown things 
all around ! 

Come, what’s the matter now ? and what have you 
lost or found ? 

And here’s my father here, a waiting for supper, too; 

I’ve been a riding with him—he’s that “ handsomer 
man than you.” 

Ha! ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on, 

And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old 
John. 

Why, John, you look ~o strange! come, what has 
crossed your track ? 


I was only a joking, you know; I’m willing to take 
it back. 

John (aside). 

Well, now, if this ain't a joke, with rather a bitter 
cream ! 

It seems as if I’d woke from a mighty ticklish dream; 

And I think she “ smells a rat,” for she smiles at me 
so queer, 

I hope she don’t; good gracious! I hope that they 
didn’t hear! 

’Twas one of her practical drives—she thought I’d 
understand! 

But I’ll never break sod again till I get the lay of the 
land. 

But one thing’s settled with me—to appreciate heaven 
well, 

’Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of 
hell. 







JOAQUIN MILLER. 


a 


THE POET OF THE SIERRAS. 





N the year 1851, a farmer moved from the Wabash district in Indians 
to the wilder regions of Oregon. In his family was a rude, untau^h; 
boy of ten or twelve years, bearing the unusual name of Cincin- 
natus Hiner Miller. This boy worked with his father on the farm 
until he was about fifteen years of age, when he abandoned the 
family log-cabin in the Willamette Valley of his Oregon home to 
try this fortune as a gold miner. 

A more daring attempt was seldom if ever undertaken by a fifteen year old 
youth. It was during the most desperate period of Western history, just after tlie 
report of the discovery of gold had caused the greatest rush to the Pacific slope. 
A miscellaneous and turbulent population swarmed over the country; and, “armed 
to the teeth” prospected upon streams and mountains. The lawless, reckless life 
of these gold-hunters—millionaires to-day and beggars to-morrow—deeming it a 
virtue rather than a crime to have taken life in a brawl—was, at once, novel, 
picturesque and dramatic.—Such conditions furnished great possibilities for a poet 
or novelist—It was an era as replete with a reality of thrilling excitement as 
that furnished by the history and mythology of ancient Greece to the earlier 
Greeks poets. 

It was into this whirlpool that the young, untaught—but observant and daring- 
farmer lad threw himself, and when its whirl was not giddy and fast enough for 
him, or palled upon his more exacting taste for excitement and daring adventure, 
he left it after a few months, and sought deeper and more desperate wilds. With 
Walker he became a filibuster and went into Nicaragua.—He became in turn an 
astrologer, a Spanish vaquero , and, joining the wild Indians, was made a Sachem. 

For five years he followed these adventurous wanderings; then as suddenly as 
1* had entered the life he deserted it, and, in 1860 the prodigal returned home to 
his father’s cabin in Oregon. In his right arm he carried a bullet, in his right 
thigh another, and on many parts of his body were the scars left by Indian ar¬ 
rows. Shortly after returning home he begun the study of law and was admitted 
to practice within a few months in Lane County, Oregon; but the gold fever or 
spirit of adventure took possession of him again and in 1861 we find him in the 
gold mines of Idaho; but the yellow metal did not come into his “Pan” sufficiently 
fast and he gave it up to become an express messenger in the mining district. A 
few months later he was back in Oregon where he started a Democratic Newspaper 

1G0 

















































SIX TYPICAL AMERICAN NOVELISTS 

























JOAQUIN MILLEE. 


i6r 

at Eugene City which he ran long enough to get acquainted with a poetical contri- 
utm, Miss Minnie Myrtle, whom lie married in 1862—in his usual short-order way 

ot doing things—after an acquaintance of three days. Where “ Joaquin ” Miller_ 

foi lie was now called Joaquin after a Spanish brigand whom he had defended— 
got his education is a mystery; but through the years of wandering, even in boy¬ 
hood, he was a lhymesterand his verses now began to come fast in the columns of 
his paper. 

In 1862, after his marriage he resumed the practice of law, and, in 1866, at the 
age of twenty-five, was elected Judge of Grant County. This position he held for 



JOAQUIN MILLER’S STUDY, OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA. 


four years during which time he wrote much poetry. One day with his usual 
“ suddenness ” he abandoned his wife and his country and sailed for London to seek 
a publisher. At first he was unsuccessful, and had to print a small volume privately. 
This introduced him to the friendship of English writers and his “ Songs of the 
Sierras ” was issued in 1871. Naturally these poems were faulty in style and called 
forth strong adverse criticism; but the tales they told were glowing and passionate, 
and the wild and adventurous life they described was a new revelation in the world 
of song, and, verily, whatever the austere critic said, “ The common people heard him 
gladly ” and his success became certain. Thus encouraged Miller returned to Cali¬ 
fornia, visited the tropics and collected material for another work which he published 

li 













1G2 


JOAQUIN MILLER. 


in London in 1873 entitled “Sunland Songs.” Succeeding, the “Songs of the 
Desert” appeared in 1875; “Songs of Italy” 1878; Songs of the Mexican Seas 
1887. Later lie lias published “ With Walker in Nicaragua ” and he is also author 
of a play called “The Danites,” and of several prose works relating to life in the 
West among which are “The Danites in the Sierras,” “Shadows of Shasta” and 
‘ 49, or “ The Gold-seekers of the Sierras.” 

The chief excellencies of Miller’s works are his gorgeous pictures of the gigantic 
scenery of the Western mountains. In this sense he is a true poet. As compared 
with Bret Harte, while Miller has the finer poetic perception of the two, he does not 
possess the dramatic power nor the literary skill of Harte; nor does he seem to 
recognize the native generosity and noble qualities which lie hidden beneath the 
vicious lives of outlaws, as the latter reveals it in his writings. After all the ques¬ 
tion arises which is the nearer the truth ? Harte is about the same age as Miller, 
lived among the camps at about the same time, but he was not, to use a rough ex¬ 
pression, “ one of the gang,” was not so pronouncedly “ on the inside ” as was his 
brother poet. He never dug in the mines, he was not a filibuster, nor an Indian 
Sachem. All these and more Miller was, and perhaps he is nearer the plumb line 
of truth in his delineations after all. 

Mr. Miller’s home is on the bluffs overlooking the San Francisco Bay in sight of 
the Golden Gate. In July, 1897, he joined the gold seekers in the Klondike re¬ 
gions of Alaska. 


-KX- 

THOUGHTS OF MY WESTERN HOME. 


WRITTEN IN ATHENS. 


TERRAS, and eternal tents 

Of snow that flashed o’er battlements 
Of mountains ! My land of the sun, 
Am I not true ? have I not done 
All things for thine, for thee alone, 

0 sun-land, sea-land, thou mine own ? 

From other loves and other lands, 

As true, perhaps, as strong of hands, 

Have I not turned to thee and thine, 

0 sun-land of the palm and pine, 

And sung thy scenes, surpassing skies, 

Till Europe lifted up her face 
And marveled at thy matchless grace, 



With eager and inquiring eyes ? 

Be my reward some little place 
To pitch my tent, some tree and vin 
Where I may sit above the sea, 

And drink the sun as drinking wine 
And dream, or sing some songs of thee, 
Or days to climb to Shasta’s dome 
Again, and be with gods at home, 

Salute my mountains—clouded Hood, 
Saint Helen’s in its sea of wood— 
Where sweeps the Oregon, and where 
White storms are in the feathered fir. 


-- *<>• -- 

MOUNT SHASTA. 


0 lord all Godland! lift the brow 
Familiar to the noon,—to top 
The universal world,—to prop 
The hollow heavens up,—to vow 
Stern constancy with stars,—to keep 
Eternal ward while cons sleep ; 

To tower calmly up and touch 
God’s purple garment—hems that sweep 
The cold blue north ! Oh, this were much ! 



Where storm-born shadows hide and hunt 
T knew thee in my glorious youth, 

I loved thy vast face, white as truth, 

I stood where thunderbolts were wont 
To smite thy Titan-fashioned front, 

And heard rent mountains rock and roll. 

I saw thy lightning’s gleaming rod 
Reach forth and write on heaven’s scroll 
The awful autograph of God ! 












JOAQUIN MILLER. 



KIT CARSON’S RIDE. 


tfpjpkSft UN ? Now you bet you; - I rather guess so. 

But he’s blind as a badger. Whoa, Pache 

No, you wouldn’t think so to look at his 
eyes. 

But he is badger blind, and it happened this wise ;— 

We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels, 

Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride. 

“ Forty full miles if a foot to ride, 

Forty full miles if a foot and the devils 
Of red Camanches are hot on the track 
When once they strike it. Let the sun go down 
Soon, very soon,' 7 muttered bearded old Revels 
As he peered at the sun, lying low on his back, 
Holding fast to his lasso ; then he jerked at his steed, 
And sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around, 
And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the 
ground,—- 

Then again to his feet and to me, to my bride, 

While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud, 
His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud, 

And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown from a 
reed,— 

“ Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed, 

And speed, if ever for life you would speed ; 

And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride, 
For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire, 

And feet of wild horses, hard flying before 
I hear like a sea breaking hard on the shore ; 

While the buffalo come like the surge of the sea, 
Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us three 
As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire.” 

We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein, 

Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched them over 
again, 

And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheer, 
Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold, 
Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with gold, 
And gold-mounted Colts, true companions for years, 
Cast the red silk serapes to the wind in a breath 
And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the 
horse. 

Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall, 

Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or low call 
Of love-note or courage, but on o’er the plain 
So steady and still, leaning low to the mane, 

With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein, 
Rode we on, rode we three, rode we gray nose and 
nose, 

Reaching long, breathing loud, like a creviced wind 
blows, 

Yet we spoke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer, 


There was work to be done, there was death in the air, 
And the chance was as one to a thousand for all. 

Gray nose to gray nose and each steady mustang 
Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the hollow 
earth rang 

And the foam from the flank and the croup and the 
neck 

Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck. 
Twenty miles ! thirty miles—a dim distant speck — 
Then a long reaching line and the Brazos in sight. 
And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight. 

I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right, 

But Revels was gone ; I glanced by my shoulder 
And saw his horse stagger; I saw bis head drooping 
Hard on his breast, and his naked breast stooping 
Low down to the mane as so swifter and bolder 
Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. 

To right and to left the black buffalo came, 

In miles and in millions, rolling on in despair. 

With their beards to the dust and black tails in the 
air. 

As a terrible surf on a red sea of flame 
Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching 
higher, 

And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull, 

The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full 
Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire 
Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud 
And unearthly and up through its lowering cloud 
Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden tire, 
While his keen crooked horns through the storm of 
his mane 

Like black lances lifted and lifted again ; 

And I looked but this once, for the fire licked 
through, 

And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two. 

I looked to my left then, and nose, neck, and shoulder 
Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs; 

And up through the black blowing veil of her hair 
Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes 
With a longing and love, yet look of despair, 

And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her, 
And flames reaching far for her glorious hair. 

Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell 
To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck’s swell 
Did subside and recede, and the nerves fell as dead. 
Then she saw that my own steed still lorded his 
head 

With a look of delight, for this Pache, you see, 

| Was her father’s and once at the South Santafee 
Had won a whole herd, sweeping everything down 
In a race where the world came to run for the crown • 
And so when I won the true heart of my bride,— 









JOAQUIN MILLER. 


My neighbor’s and deadliest enemy’s child, 

And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe,— 
She brought me this steed to the border the night 
She met Revels and me in her perilous flight, 

From the lodge of the chief to the north Brazos 
side; 

And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled, 

As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride 
The fleet-footed Pache, so if kin should pursue 
1 should surely escape without other ado 
1 ban to ride, without blood, to the north Brazos side, 
And await her,—and wait till the next hollow moon 
Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and soon 
And swift she would join me, and all would be well 
Wi,h out bloodshed or word. And now as she fell 
From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire, 
'Idle last that I saw was a look of delight 
That I should escape,—a love,—a desire,— 

Vet never a word, not a look of appeal,— 

Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay 
heel 

One instant for her in my terrible flight. 

d hen the rushing of fire rose around me and under, 
And the howling of beast like the sound of thunder,— 
I leases burning and blind and forced onward and over. 
As the passionate flame reached around them and 
wove her 

Hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died,— 


Till they died with a wild and a desolate moafi, 

As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone, 

And into the Brazos I rode all alone— 

All alone, save only a horse long-limbed, 

And blind and bare and burnt to the skin. 

Then just as the terrible sea came in 
And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide, 

Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream 
brimmed 

In eddies, we struck on the opposite side. 

“Sell Pache—blind Pache? Now, mister! look 
here! 

You have slept in my tent and partook of my cheer' 
Many days, many days, on this rugged frontier,” \ 
For the ways they were rough and Comanches were 
near; 

“ But you’d better pack up, sir! That tent is too 
small 

For us two after this! lias an old mountaineer, 

Do you book-men believe, get no tum-tum at all? 

Sell Pache ! You buy him ! a bag full of gold ! 

You show him ! 'fell of him the tale T have told ! 
Why he bore me through fire, and is blind and is 
old ! 

Now pack up your papers, and get up 
and spin 

To them cities you tell of. Blast you and 

your tin 1” 


-•<>•- 

JOAQUIN MILLER’S ALASKA LETTER. 


As a specimen of this author’s prose writing and style, we present the following extract from a syndicate 
letter clipped from the “Philadelphia Inquirer.” 

clouds, the shout and cry of exultation of those brave 
conquerors came back, and only died away when the 



1lead of Lake Bennett , Alaska , August 2, 1897. 

WRITE by the bank of what is already a 
big river, and at the fountain head of the 
mighty l r ukon, the second if not the first 
of American rivers. We have crossed the summit, 
passed the terrible Chilkoot Pass and Crater Lake 
and Long Lake and Lideman Lake, and now I sit 
down to tell the story of the past, while the man who 
is to take me up the river six hundred miles to the 
Klondike rows his big scow, full of cattle, brought 
from Seattle. 


distance made it possible to be heard no longer. And 
now we began to ascend. 

It was not so hard as it seemed. The stupendous 
granite mountain, the home of the avalanche and (he 
father of glaciers, melted away before us as we 
ascended, and in a single hour of brisk climbing we 
stood against the summit or rather between the big 
granite blocks that marked the summit. As I said 
before, the path is not so formidable as it looked, and 


^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

THE BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OP CIIILTCOOT PASS. 

All the pictures that had been .painted by word, 
all on easel, or even in imagination of Napoleon and 
his men climbing up the Alps, are but childish play¬ 
things in comparison with the grandeur of Chilkoot 
Pass. Starting up the steep ascent, we raised a 
shout and it ran the long, steep and tortuous line that 
reached from a bluff above us, and over and up till 
it lost itself in the clouds. And down to us from the 


it is not half so formidable as represented, but mark you, 
it is no boy s play, no man s play. It is a man’s and 
a big strong man’s honest work, and takes strength of 
body and nerve of soul. 

Right in the path and within ten feet of a snow 
bank that has not perished for a thousand years, I 
picked and ate a little strawberry, and as I rested and 
roamed about a bit, looking down into the brightly 
blue lake that made the head waters of the \ r ukon, 
I gathered a little sun flower, a wild hyacinth and a 
.wild tea blossom for uu< buttonhole. 














ail 


* ol 


■ei 


JAMES FENIMOKE COOPER. 


THE WALTER SCOTT OF AMERICA. 



UR first American novelist, and to the present time perhaps the only 
American novelist whose fame is permanently established among 
foreigners, is James tenimore Cooper. While Washington Irving, 
our first writer of short stories, several years Cooper’s senior, was so 
strikingly popular in England and America, Cooper’s “Spy” and 
“Pilot” and the “Last ol the Mohicans” went beyond the bounds 
4 of the English language, and the Spaniard, the Frenchman, the German, the Italian 
and others had placed him beside their own classics and were dividing honors be¬ 
tween him and Sir Walter Scott; and it was they who first called him the Walter 
: Scott of America. Nor was this judgment altogether wrong. For six or seven 
years Scott’s Waverly Novels had been appearing, and his “Ivanlioe,” which was 
first published in 1820—the first historical novel of the world—had given the clue to 
Cooper for “ The Spy,” which appeared in 1821, the first historical novel of America. 
Both books were translated into foreign languages by the same translators, and made 
for their respective authors quick and lasting fame. 

James Fenimore Cooper was born in Burlington, New Jersey, September 15, 
1789—the same year that George Washington was inaugurated President of the 
United States. His father owned many thousand acres of wild land on the head 
waters of the Susquehanna River in New York, and while James was an infant 
removed thither and built a stately mansion on Otsego Lake, near the point where 
if) the little river issues forth on its journey to the sea. Around Otsego Hall, as it was 

* called, the village of Cooperstown grew up. In this wilderness young Cooper 

* passed his childhood, a hundred miles beyond the advancing lines of civilization. 
Along the shores of the beautiful lake, shut in by untouched forests, or in the woods 
themselves, which rose and fell unbroken—except here and there by a pioneer’s hut 
or a trapper’s camp—he passed his boyhood days and slept at night among the 
solemn silence of nature’s primeval grandeur. All the delicate arts of the forest, 
the craft of the woodsman, the trick of the trapper, the stratagem of the Indian 
fighter, the wiley shrewdness of the tawny savage, the hardships and dangers of 
pioneer life were as familiar to Cooper as were the legends of North Britain and the 
stirring ballads of the highlands and the lowlands to Walter Scott. But for this 
experience we should never have had the famous Leather Stocking Tales. 

From this wilderness the boy was sent at the age of thirteen to Yale College, 
where he remained three years, but was too restless and adventurous to devote himself 

165 


































166 


JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 


diligently to study and was dismissed in disgrace at sixteen. For one year he 
shipped before the mast as a common sailor and for the next five years served as a 
midshipman in the United States Navy, making himself master ot that knowledge 
find detail of nautical life which he afterwards employed to so much advantage in 
his romances of the sea. 

In 1811 Cooper .resigned his post as midshipman, and married Miss Delancey, 
with whom he lived happily for forty years. The first few years of his married 
life were spent in quiet retirement. For some months he resided in Westchester 
County, the scene of his book “ The Spy.” Then he removed to his old home at 
Cooperstown and took possession of the family mansion, to which he had fallen heir 
through the death of his father. Here he prepared to spend his life as a quiet 
country gentleman, and did so until a mere accident called him into authorship. 
Up to that date he seems never to have touched a pen or even thought of one except 
to write an ordinary letter. He was, however, fond of reading, and often read aloud 
to his wife. One day while reading a British novel he looked up and playfully 
said : “ I could write a better book than that myself.” “ Suppose you try,” replied 

his wife, and retiring to his library he wrote a chapter which he read to Mrs. 
Cooper. She was pleased with it and suggested that he continue, which he did, and 
published the book, under the title of “Precaution,” in 1820. 

No one at that time had thought of writing a novel with the scene laid in 
America, and “ Precaution,” which had an English setting, was so thoroughly Eng¬ 
lish that it was reviewed in London with no suspicion of its American authorship. 
The success which it met, while not great, impressed Cooper that as he had not failed 
with a novel describing British life, of which he knew little, he might succeed with 
one on American life, of which he knew much. It was a happy thought. Scott’s 
“ Ivanhoe ” had just been read by him and it suggested an American historical 
theme, and he wrote the story of “ The Spy,” which he published in 1821. It was 
a tale of the Revolution, in which the central figure, Harvey Birch, the spy, is one 
of the most interesting and effective characters in the realm of romantic literature. 
It quickly followed Scott’s “ Ivanhoe ” into many languages. 

Encouraged by the plaudits from both sides of the Atlantic Cooper w^ote another 
story, “The Pioneers” (1823), which was the first attempt to put into fiction the 
life of the frontier and the character of the backwoodsman. Here Cooper was in 
his element, on firm ground, familiar to him from his infancy, but the book was a 
revelation to the outside world. It is in this work that one of the greatest charac¬ 
ters in fiction, the old backwoodsman Natty Bumpo—the famous Leather-Stock¬ 
ing—appeared and gave his name to a series of tales, comprised, in five volumes, 
which was not finally completed for twenty years. Strange to say, this famous 
series of books was not written in regular order. To follow the story logically the 
reader is recommended to read first the “ Deerslayer,” next the “ Last of the Mohi¬ 
cans,” followed by “ The Pathfinder,” then “ The Pioneers,” and last “ The 
Prairie,” which ends with the death of Leather-Stocking. 

The sea tales of Cooper were also suggested by Walter Scott, who published the 
“ Pirate” in 1821. This book was being discussed by Cooper and some friends. 
The latter took the position that Scott could not have been its author since he was a 
lawyer and therefore could not have the knowledge of sea life which the book dis- 





JAMES FENIMORE COOPER 


167 


played. Cooper, being himself a mariner, declared that it could not have been 
written by a man familiar with the sea. He argued that it lacked that detail of 
information which no mariner would have failed to exhibit. To prove this point he 
determined to write a sea tale, and in 1823 his book “ The Pilot” appeared, which 
was the first genuine salt-water novel ever written and to this day is one of the best. 
Tom Coffin, the hero of this novel, is the only one of all Cooper’s characters worthy 
to take a place beside Leather-Stocking, and the two books were published within 
two years of each other. In 1829 appeared “The Red Rover,” which is.wholly a 
tale of the ocean, as “ The Last of the Mohicans ” is wholly a tale of the forest. In 
all, Cooper wrote ten sea tales, which with his land stories established the fact that 
he was equally at home whether on the green billows or under the green trees. 

In 1839 Cooper published his “ History of the United States Navy,” which is to 
this day the only authority on the subject for the period of which it treats. He 
also wrote many other novels on American subjects and some eight or ten dike 
“ Bravo,” “ The Headsman ” and others on European themes ; but it is by “ The 
Spy,” the five Leather-Stocking tales, and four or five of his sea tales that his 
fame has been secured and will be maintained. 

In 1822, after “The Spy” had made Cooper famous, he removed to New York, 
where he lived for a period of four years, one of the most popular men in the 
metropolis. His force of character, big-heartedness, and genial, companionable 
nature—notwithstanding the fact that he was contentious and frequently got into 
the most heated discussions—made him unusually popular with those who knew 
him. He had many friends, and his friends were the best citizens of New York. 
He founded the “ Bread and Cheese Lunch,” to which belonged Chancellor Kent, 
the poets Fitzgreen Halleck and Win. Cullen Bryant, Samuel Morse, the inventor 
of the telegraph, and many other representatives of science, literature, and the 
learned professions. In 1826 he sailed for Europe, in various parts of which he 
resided for a period of six years. Before his departure he was tendered a dinner in 
New York, which was attended by many of the most prominent men of the nation. 
Washington Irving had gone to the Old World eleven years before and traveled 
throughout Great Britain and over the Continent, but Cooper’s works, though it was 
but six years since his first volume was published, were at this time more widely 
known than those of Irving ; and with the author of the “ Sketchbook ” he divided 
the honors which the Old World so generously showered upon those two brilliant 
representatives of the New. 

Many pleasant pages might be filled with the records of Cooper’s six years in 
Europe, during which time he enjoyed the association and respect of the greatest 
literary personages of the Old World. It would be interesting to tell how Sir Walter 
Scott sought him out in Paris and renewed the acquaintance again in London ; how 
he lived in friendship and intimacy with General Lafayette at the French capital; 
to tell of his associations with Wordsworth and Rogers in London ; his intimate 
friendship with the great Italian Greenough, and his fondness for Italy, which 
country he preferred above all others outside of America; of the delightful little 
villa where he lived in Florence, where he said he could look out upon green leaves 
and write to the music of the birds ; to picture him settled for a summer in Naples ; 
living in Tasso’s villa at Sarento, writing his stories in the same house in which the 


JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 


168 

great Latin author had lived, with the same glorious view of the sea and the bay, and 
the surf dashing almost against its walls. But space forbids that we should indulge 
in recounting these pleasant reminiscences. Let it be said that wherever he was 
he was thoroughly and pronouncedly an American. He was much annoyed by the 
ignorance and prejudice of the English in all that related to his country. In 
France he vigorously defended the system of American government in a public 
pamphlet which he issued in favor of General Lafayette, upon whom the public 
press was making an attack. He was equally in earnest in bringing forward the 
claims of our poets, and was accustomed at literary meetings and dinner parties to 
carry volumes of Bryant, Hal leek, Drake and others, from which he read quotations 
to prove his assertions of their merits. Almost every prominent American who 
visited Europe during his seven years’ sojourn abroad brought back pleasant recol¬ 
lections of his intercourse with the great and patriotic novelist. 

Cooper returned to America in 1833, the same year that Washington Irving came 
back to his native land. He retired to his home at Cooperstown, where he spent 
the remaining nineteen years of his life, dying on the 14th day of September, 1852, 
one day before the sixty-second anniversary of his birth. His palatial home at 
Cooperstown, as were also his various places of residence in New York and foreign 
lands, were always open to his deserving countrymen, and many are the ambitious 
young aspirants in art, literature and politics who have left his hospitable roof with 
higher ideals, loftier ambitions and also with a more exalted patriotism. 

A few days after his death a meeting of prominent men was held in New York 
in honor of their distinguished countryman. Washingion Irving presided and 
William Cullen Bryant delivered an oration paying fitting tribute to the genius of 
the first great American novelist, who was first to show how fit for fiction were the 
scenes, the characters, and the history of his native land. Nearly fifty years have 
passed since that day, but Cooper’s men of the sea and his men of the forest and the 
plain still survive, because they deserve to live, because they were true when they 
were written, and remain to-day the best of their kind. Though other fashions in 
fiction have come and gone and other novelists have a more finished art nowadays, 
no one of them all has succeeded more completely in doing what he tried to do than 
did James Fenimore Cooper. 

If we should visit Cooperstown, New York, the most interesting spot we should 
see would be the grave of America’s first great novelist; and the one striking feature 
about it would be the marble statue of Leather Stocking, with dog and gun, over¬ 
looking the last resting-place of his great creator. Then we should visit the house 
and go into the library and sit in the chair and lean over the table where he was 
created. Then down to the beautiful Otsego Lake, and as the little pleasure steamer 
comes into view we peer to catch the gilded name painted on its side. Nearer it 
comes, and we read with delight “ Natty Bumpo,” the real name of Leather 
Stocking. Otsego Hall, the cemetery and the lake alike, are a shrine to the memory 
of Cooper and this greatest hero of American fiction. And we turn away deter¬ 
mined to read again the whole of the Leather Stocking Tales . 



JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 


169 


ENCOUNTER WITH A PANTHER. 


(FROM “ THE PIONEERS.”) 



Y this time they had gained the summit of 
the mountain, where they left the highway, 
and pursued their course under the shade 
of the stately trees that crowned the eminence. 
The day was becoming warm, and the girls 
plunged more deeply into the forest, as they found 
its invigorating coolness agreeably contrasted to the 
excessive heat they had experienced in the ascent. 
The conversation, as if by mutual consent, was en¬ 
tirely changed to the little incidents and scenes of 
their walk, and every tall pine, and every shrub or 
flower called forth some simple expression of ad- 
niration. In this manner they proceeded along the 
margin of the precipice, catching occasional glimpses 
of the placid Otsego, or pausing to listen to the 
rattling of wheels and the sounds of hammers that 
rose from the valley, to mingle the signs of men with 
the scenes of nature, when Elizabeth suddenly 
started and exclaimed: 

“ Listen ! There are the cries of a child on this 
mountain ! Is there a clearing near us, or can some 
little one have strayed from its parents ? ” 

“ Such things frequently happen,” returned Louisa. 
“ Let us follow the sounds ; it may be a wanderer 
starving on the hill.” 

Urged by this consideration, the females pursued 
l he low, mournful sounds, that proceeded from the 
orest, with quick impatient steps. More than once 
the ardent Elizabeth was on the point of announcing 
that she saw the sufferer, when Louisa caught her by 
the arm, and pointing behind them, cried, “ Look at 
the dog ! ” 

Brave had been their companion from the time the 
voice of his young mistress lured him from his kennel, 
to the present moment. His advanced age had long 
before deprived him of his activity ; and when his 
companions stopped to view the scenery, or to add to 
their bouquets, the mastiff would lay his huge frame 
on the ground and await their movements, with his 
eyes closed, and a listlessness in his air that ill ac¬ 
corded with the character of a protector. But when, 
aroused by this cry from Louisa, Miss Temple turned, 
she saw the dog with his eyes keenly set on some 
distant object, his head bent near the ground, and his 


hair actually rising on his body, through fright c: 
anger. It was most probably the latter, for he was 
growling in a low key, and occasionally showing his 
teeth in a manner that would have territied his mis¬ 
tress, had she not so well known his good qualities. 

“ Brave ! ” she said, “ be quiet, Brave ! what do 
you see, fellow ? ” 

At the sound of her voice, the rage of the mastiff, 
instead of being at all diminished, was very sensibly 
increased. He stalked in front of the ladies, and 
seated himself at the feet of his mistress, growling 
louder than before, and occasionally giving vent to his 
ire by a short, surly barking. 

“ What does he see ? ” said Elizabeth ; “ there 
must be some animal in sight.” 

Hearing no answer from her companion, Miss 
Temple turned her head, and beheld Louisa, stand¬ 
ing with her face whitened to the color of death, and 
her finger pointing upward, with a sort of flickering, 
convulsed motion. The quick eye of Elizabeth 
glanced in the direction indicated by her friend 
where she saw the fierce front and glaring eyes of , 
female panther, fixed on them in horrid malignity, 
and threatening to leap. 

“ Let us fly,” exclaimed Elizabeth, grasping the 
arm of Louisa, whose form yielded like melting snow. 

There was not a single feeling in the temperament 
of Elizabeth Temple that could prompt her to desert 
a companion in such an extremity. She fell on her 
knees, by the side of the inanimate Louisa, tearing 
from the person of her friend, with instinctive readi¬ 
ness, such parts of her dress as might obstruct her 
respiration, and encouraging their only safeguard, the 
dog, at the same time, by the sounds of her voice. 

“ Courage, Brave! ” she cried, her own tones be¬ 
ginning to tremble, “ courage, courage, good Brave ! ” 

A quarter-grown cub, that had hitherto been un¬ 
seen, now appeared, dropping from the branches of a 
sapling that grew under the shade of the beech which 
held its dam. This ignorant, but vicious creature, 
approached the dog, imitating the actions and sounds 
of its parent, but exhibiting a strange mixture of the 
playfulness of a kitten with the ferocity of its race. 
Standing on its hind-legs, it would rend the bark of a 








170 


JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 


tree with its forepaws, and play the antics of a cat; 
and then, by lashing itself with its tail, growling and 
scratching the earth, it would attempt the manifesta¬ 
tions of anger that rendered its parent so terrific. 
All this time Brave stood firm and undaunted, his 
short tail erect, his body drawn backward on its 
haunches, and his eyes following the movements of 
both dam and cub. At every gambol played by the 
latter, it approached nigher to the dog, the growling 
of the three becoming more horrid at each moment, 
until the younger beast, overleaping its intended 
bound, fell directly before the mastiff. There was a 
moment of fearful cries and struggles, but they ended 
almost as soon as commenced, by the cub appearing 
in the air, hurled from the jaws of Brave, with a 
violence that sent it against a tree so forcibly as to 
render it completely senseless. 

Elizabeth witnessed the short struggle, and her 
blood was warming with the triumph of the dog 
when she saw the form of the old panther in the air, 
springing twenty feet from the branch of the beech 
to the back of the mastiff. No words of ours can 
describe the fury of the conflict that followed. It 
was a confused struggle on the dry leaves, accom¬ 
panied by loud and terrific cries. Miss Temple con¬ 
tinued on her knees, bending over the form of Louisa, 
her eyes fixed on the animals, with an interest so 
horrid, and yet so intense, that she almost forgot her 
own stake in the result. So rapid and vigorous were 
the bounds of the inhabitant of the forest, that its 
active frame seemed constantly in the air, while the 
dog nobly faced his foe at each successive leap. 
When the panther lighted on the shoulders of the 
mastiff, which was its constant aim, old Brave, 
though torn with her talons, and stained with his 
own blood, that already flowed from a dozen wounds, 
would shake oft his furious foe like a feather, and 
rearing on his hind-legs, rush to the fray again, with 
jaws distended and a dauntless eye. But age, and 
his pampered life, greatly disqualified the noble mas¬ 
tiff for such a struggle. In evervthing but courage 
he was only the vestige of what he had once been. 
A higher bound than ever raised the wary and 
furious beast far beyond the reach of the dog, who 
was making a desperate but fruitless dash at her, 
from which she alighted in a favorable position, on 
the back of her aged foe, For a single moment only 


could the panther remain there, the great strength of 
the dog returning with a convulsive effort. But 
Elizabeth saw, as Brave fastened his teeth in the side 
of his enemy, that the collar of brass around his 
neck, which had been glittering throughout the fray, 
was of the color of blood, and directly, that his frame 
was sinking to the earth, where it soon lay prostrate 
and helpless. Several mighty efforts of the wild-cat 
to extricate herself from the jaws of the dog fol¬ 
lowed, but they were fruitless, until the mastiff turned 
on his back, his lips collapsed, and his teeth loosened, 
when the short convulsions and stillness that suc¬ 
ceeded announced the death of poor Brave. 

Elizabeth now lay wholly at the mercy of the 
beast. There is said to be something in the front of 
the image of the Maker that daunts the hearts of 
the inferior beings of his creation ; and it would seem 
that some such power in the present instance sus¬ 
pended the threatened blow. The eyes of the mon¬ 
ster and the kneeling maiden met for an instant, 
when the former stooped to examine her fallen foe ; 
next to scent her luckless cub. From the latter ex¬ 
amination it turned, however, with its eyes appar¬ 
ently emitting flashes of fire, its tail lashing its sides 
furiously, and its claws projecting inches from her 
broad feet. 

Miss Temple did not or could not move. Her 
hands were clasped in the attitude of prayer, but her 
eyes were still drawn to her terrible enemy—her 
cheeks were blanched to the whiteness of marble, 
and her lips were slightly separated with horror. 
The moment seemed now to have arrived for the 
fatal termination, and the beautiful figure of Eliza¬ 
beth was bowing meekly to the stroke, when a rust¬ 
ling of leaves behind seemed rather to mock the 
organs than to meet her ears. 

“ Hist! hist!” said a low voice, u stoop lower, gal! 
your bonnet hides the creature’s head.” 

It was rather the yielding of nature than a com¬ 
pliance with this unexpected order, that caused the 
head of our heroine to sink on her bosom; when 
she heard the report of the rifle, the whiz of the 
bullet, and the enraged cries of the beast, who 
was rolling over on the earth, biting its own flesh, 
and tearing the twigs and branches within its reach. 
At the next instant the form of Leather-Stocking 
rushed by her, and he called aloud; 







JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 


17 * 


k ‘ Come in, Hector, come in old fool; ’tis a hard- 
dved animal, and may jump agin.” 

Natty fearlessly maintained his position in front of 
he females, notwithstanding the violent bounds and 
threatening aspect of the wounded panther, which 


gave several indications of returning strength and 
ferocity until his rifle was again loaded, when he 
stepped up to the enraged animal, and, placing the 
muzzle close to its head, every spark of life was ex¬ 
tinguished by the discharge. 


OM,” cried Barnstable, starting, 
the blow of a whale.” 

“Ay, ay, sir,” returned the cockswain, 
with undisturbed composure ; “ here is his spout, not 
half a mile to seaward; the easterly gale has driven 
the creater to leeward, and he begins to find himself 
in shoal water. He’s been sleeping, while he should 
have been working to windward !” 

“ The fellow takes it coolly, too! he’s in no hurry 
to get an offing.” 

“ I rather conclude, sir,” said the cockswain, roll¬ 
ing over his tobacco in his mouth very composedly, 
while his little sunken eyes began to twinkle with 
pleasure at the sight, “ the gentleman has lost his 
reckoning, and don’t know which way to head, to 
take himself back into blue water.” 

“ ’Tis a fin back !” exclaimed the lieutenant; “ he 
will soon make headway, and be off.” 

“ No, sir ; ’tis a right whale,” answered Tom ; “ I 
saw his spout; he threw up a pair of as pretty 
rainbows as a Christian would wish to look at. He’s 
a raal oil-butt, that fellow!” 

Barnstable laughed, and exclaimed, in joyous 
tones— 

“ Give strong wav, my hearties ! There seems 
nothing better to be done; let us have a stroke of a 
harpoon at that impudent rascal.” 

The men shouted spontaneously, and the old cock¬ 
swain suffered his solemn visage to relax into a small 
laugh, while the whaleboat sprang forward like a 
courser for the goal. During the few minutes they 
were pulling towards their game, long Tom arose 
from his crouching attitude in the stern sheets, and 
transferred his huge frame to the bows of the boat, 
where he made such preparation to strike the whale 
as the occasion required. 

The tub, containing about half of a whale line, was 
placed at the feet of Barnstable, who had been pre¬ 


paring an oar to steer with, in place of the rudder, 
which was unshipped in order that, if necessary, the 
boat might be whirled around when not advancing. 

Their approach w r as utterly unnoticed by the 
monster of the deep, who continued to amuse himself 
with throwing the w r ater in two circular spouts high 
into the air, occasionally flourishing the broad flukes of 
his tail with graceful but terrific force, until the 
hardy seamen w T ere within a few hundred feet of 
him, wffien he suddenly cast his head downwards, 
and, without apparent effort, reared his immense body 
for many feet above the water, waving his tail violently, 
and producing a whizzing noise, that sounded like the 
rushing of winds. The cockswain stood erect, poising 
his harpoon, ready for the blow; but, when he beheld 
the creature assuming his formidable attitude, he 
waved his hand to his commander, who instantly 
signed to his men to cease rowing. In this situation 
the sportsmen rested a few moments, while the whale 
struck several blows on the water in rapid succession, 
the noise of wdiich re-echoed along the cliffs like the 
hollow reports of so many cannon. After the wanton 
exhibition of his terrible strength, the monster sunk 
again into his native element, and slowly disappeared 
from the eyes of his pursuers. 

“Which way did he head, Tom?” cried Barm 
stable, the moment the whale was out of sight. 

“ Pretty much up and down, sir,” returned the 
cockswain, whose eye was gradually brightening with 
the excitement of the sport; “ he’ll soon run his nose 
against the bottom, if he stands long on that course, 
and will be glad enough to get another snuff of pure 
air; send her a few fathoms to starboard, sir, and I 
promise we shall not be out of his track.” 

The conjecture of the experienced old seaman 
proved true, for in a few minutes the water broke 
near them, and another spout was cast into the air, 
when the huge animal rushed for half his length i& 


THE CAPTURE OF A WHALE, 
there is 








172 


JAMES FENIMOEE COOPER. 


tbe same direction, and fell on the sea with a turbu¬ 
lence and foam equal to that which is produced by 
the launching of a vessel, for the first time, into its 
proper element. After the evolution, the whale 
rolled heavily, and seemed to rest from further efforts. 

11 is slightest movements were closely watched by 
Barnstable and his cockswain, and, when he was in a 
state of comparative rest, the former gave a signal 
to his crew to ply their oars once more. A few long 
and vigorous strokes sent the boat directly up to the 
broadside of the whale, with its bows pointing toward one 
of the fins, which was, at times, as the animal yielded 
sluggishly to the action of the waves, exposed to view. 

The cockswain poised his harpoon with much pre¬ 
cision and then darted it from him with a violence 
that buried the iron in the body of their foe. The 
instant the blow was made, long Tom shouted, with 
singular earnestness,— 

“ Starn all!” 

“ Stern all !” echoed Barnstable; when the obe¬ 
dient seamen, by united efforts, forced the boat in a 
backward direction, beyond the reach of any blow 
from their formidable antagonist. The alarmed 
animal, however, meditated no such resistance ; ignor¬ 
ant of his own power, and of the insignificance of 
his enemies, he sought refuge in flight. One moment 
of stupid surprise succeeded the entrance of the 
iron, when he cast his huge tail into the air with a 
violence that threw the sea around him into in¬ 
creased commotion, and then disappeared, with the 
quickness of lightning, amid a cloud of foam. 

“ Snub him !” shouted Barnstable; “ hold on, Tom ; 
he rises already.” 

“ Ay, ay, sir,” replied the composed cockswain, 
seizing the line, which was running out of the boat 
with a velocity that rendered such a manoeuvre 
rather hazardous. 

The boat was dragged violently in his wake, and 
cut through the billows with a terrific rapidity, that 
at moments appeared to bury the slight fabric in the 
ocean. When long Tom beheld his victim throwing 
his spouts on high again, he pointed with exultation 
to the jetting fluid, which was streaked with the 
deep red of blood, and cried,— 

“ Ay, I’ve touched the fellow’s life ! It must be 
more than two foot of blubber that stops my iron 
from reaching the life of any whale that ever sculled 
the ocean.” 


“ I believe you have saved yourself the trouble ui 
using the bayonet you have rigged for a lance,” said 
his commander, who entered into the sport with all 
the ardor of one whose youth had been chiefly passed 
in such pursuits ; “ feel your line, Master Coffin ; can 
we haul alongside of our enemy ? I like not the 
course he is steering, as he tows us from the 
schooner.” 

’Tis the creater’s way, sir,” said the cockswain ; 
“ you know they need the air in their nostrils when 
they run, the same as a man; but lay hold, boys, and 
let us haul up to him.” 

The seaman now seized their whale line, and slowly 
drew their boat to within a few feet of the tail of 
the fish, whose progress became sensibly less rapid as 
lie grew weak with the loss of blood. In a few 
minutes he stopped running, and appeared to roll 
uneasily on the water, as if suffering the agony of 
death. 

“Shall we pull in and finish him, Tom?” cried 
Barnstable; “ a few sets from your bayonet would 
do it.” 

The cockswain stood examining his game with cool 
discretion, and replied to this interrogatory,— 

“ No, sir, no ; lie’s going into his flurry; there’s 
no occasion for disgracing ourselves by using a soldier’s 
weapon in taking a whale. Starn off, sir, starn off! 
the creater’s in his flurry.” 

The warning of the prudent cockswain was promptly 
obeyed, and the boat cautiously drew off to a dis¬ 
tance, leaving to the animal a clear space while under 
its dying agonies. From a state of perfect rest, the 
terrible monster threw its tail on high as when in 
sport, but its blows were trebled in rapidity and vio¬ 
lence, till all was hid from view by a pyramid of 
foam, that was deeply dyed with blood. The roar¬ 
ings of the fish were like the bellowingsof a herd of 
bulls, and, to one who was ignorant of the fact, it 
would have appeared as if a thousand monsters were 
engaged in deadly combat behind the bloody mist 
that obstructed the view. Gradually these efforts 
subsided, and, when the discolored water again settled 
down to the long and regular swell of the ocean, the 
fish was seen exhausted, and yielding passively to its 
fate. As life departed, the enormous black mass 
rolled to one side; and when the white and glisten¬ 
ing skin of the belly became apparent, the seamen 
well knew that their victory was achieved. 




NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


<< r 


Til i: GREATEST OF AMERICAN ROMANCERS. 


>5 



O black knight in Sir Walter Scott’s novels, nor the red Indians of 
Cooper, nor his famous pioneer, Leather Stocking of the forest, nor 
his long Tom of the ocean, ever seemed more truly romantic than 
do Hawthorne’s stern and gloomy Calvinists of “The Scarlet Let¬ 
ter,” and “The House of Seven Gables,” or his Italian hero of “The 
Marble Faun.” 

We have characterized Hawthorne as the greatest of American romancers. We 
might have omitted the word American , for he has no equal in romance perhaps in 
the world of letters. An eminent critic declares: “Llis genius was greater than 
that of the idealist, Emerson. In all his mysticism his style was always clear and 
exceedingly graceful, while in those delicate, varied and permanent effects which 
are gained by a happy arrangement of words in their sentences, together with that 
unerring directness and unswerving force which characterize his writings, no author 
in modern times has equalled him. To the rhetorician, his style is a study; to the 
lay reader, a delight that eludes analysis. He is the most eminent representative of 
the American spirit in literature.” 

It was in the old town of Salem, Massachusetts—where his Puritan ancestors had 
lived for nearly two hundred years—with its haunted memories of witches and 
strange sea. tales; its stories of Endicott and the Indians, and the sombre traditions 
of witchcraft and Puritan persecution that Nathaniel Hawthorne was born July 4, 
1804. And it was in this grim, ancient city by the sea that the life of the renowned 
romancer was greatly bound up. In his childhood the town was already falling to 
decay, and his lonely surroundings filled his young imagination with a wierdness 
that found expression in the books of his later life, and impressed upon his character 
a seriousness that clung to him ever after. His father was a sea-captain,—but a 
most melancholy and silent man,—who died when Nathaniel was four years old. 
His mother lived a sad and secluded life, and the boy thus early learned to exist in 
a strange and imaginative world of his own creation. So fond of seclusion did he 
become that even after his graduation from college in 1825, he returned to his old 
haunt at Salem and resumed his solitary, dreamy existence. For twelve years, from 
1825 to 1837, lie went nowhere, he saw no one; he worked in his room by day, 
reading and writing; at twilight he wandered out along the shore, or through the 
darkened streets of the town. Certainly this was no attractive life to most young 
men • but for Hawthorne it had its fascination and during this time lie was storing 

i73 





































*74 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


his mind, forming his style, training his imagination and preparing for the splendid 
literary fame of his later years. 

Hawthorne received his early education in Salem, partly at the school of Joseph 
E. Worcester, the author of “Worcester’s Dictionary.” He entered Bowdoin Col¬ 
lege in 1821. The poet, Longfellow, and John S. C. Abbott were his classmates; 
and Franklin Pierce—one class in advance of him—was his close friend. He 
graduated in 1825 without any special distinction. His first book, “Fanshawe,” 
a novel, was issued in 1826, but so poor was its success that he suppressed its fur- 



“THE OLD MANSE/’ CONCORD, MASS. 


Built for Emerson’s grandfather. In this house Ralph Waldo Emerson dwelt for ten years, and, here, in 
the same room where Emerson wrote “Nature’’and other philosophic essays, Hawthorne prepared liis 
“ Twice Told Tales,” and “Mosses from an Old Manse.” He declares the four years (1842-1846) spent in 
this house were the happiest of his life. 

ther publication. Subsequently he placed the manuscript of a collection of stories 
in the hands of his publisher, but timidly withdrew and destroyed them. His first 
practical encouragement was received from Samuel G. Goodrich, who published four 
stories in the “Token,” one of the annuals of that time, in 1881. Mr. Goodrich 
also engaged Hawthorne as editor of the “American Magazine of Useful and Enter¬ 
taining Knowledge,” which position he occupied from 1836 to 1838. About this 
time he also contributed some of his best stories to the “New England Magazine,” 
“The Knickerbocker,” and the “Democratic Beview.” It was a part of these maga¬ 
zine stories which he collected and published in 1837 in the volume entitled, “Twice 
Told Tales,” embodying the fruits of his twelve years’ labor. 














NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


175 


This book stamped the author as a man of stronger imagination and deeper 
insight into human nature than Washington Irving evinced in his famous sketches 


ot the Hudson or Cooper in his frontier stories, for delightful as was Irving’s writ¬ 
ings and vivid as were Cooper’s pictures, it was plain to be seen that Hawthorne 
had a richer style and a firmer grasp of the art of fiction than either of them. 
Longfellow, the poet, reviewed the book with hearty commendation, and Poe pre¬ 
dicted a brilliant future for the writer if he would abandon allegory. Thus 
encouraged, Hawthorne came out from his seclusion into the world again, and mixed 
once more with his fellow-men. His friend, the historian, Bancroft, secured him a 
position in the Custom House at Salem, in 1839, which he held for two years. This 
position he lost through political jobbery on a trumped-up charge. For a few 
months he then joined in the Brook Farm settlement, though he was never in 
sympathy with the movement; nor was he a believer in the transcendental notions 
of Emerson and his school. He remained a staunch Democrat in the midst of the 
Abolitionists. His note-books were full of his discontent with the life at the Brook 
Farm. His observations of this enterprise took shape in the“ Blythedale Bomance” 
which is the only literary memorial of the association. The heroine of this novel 
was Margaret Fuller, under the name of “ Zenobia,” and the description of the 
drowning of Zenobia—a fate which Margaret Fuller had met—is the most tragic 
passage in all the writings of the author. 

In 1842 Hawthorne married Miss Sophia Peabody—a most fortunate and happy 
marriage—and the young couple moved to Concord where they lived in the house 
known as the “ Old Manse,” which had been built for Emerson’s grandfather, and 
in which Emerson himself dwelt ten years. He chose for his study the same room 
in which the philosopher had written his famous book “ Nature.” Hawthorne 
declares that the happiest period of his life were the four years spent in the “ Old 
Manse.” While living there he collected another lot of miscellaneous stories and 
published them in 1845 as a second volume of “ Twice-Told Tales,” and the next 
year came his “ Mosses from an Old Manse,” being also a collection from his pub¬ 
lished writings. In 1846 a depleted income and larger demands of a growing 
family made it necessary for him to seek a business engagement. Through a friend 
he received an appointment as Surveyor of Customs at Salem, and again removed 
to the old town where he was born forty-two years before. It was during his 
engagement here, from 1846 to 1849, that he planned and wrote his famous book 
“ The Scarlet Letter,” which was published in 1850. 

A broader experience is needed to compose a full-grown novel than to sketch a 
short tale. Scott was more than fifty when he published “ Waverly.” Cooper 
wrote the “ Spy ” when thirty-three. Thackeray, the author of “Vanity Fair,” 
was almost forty when he finished that work. “Adam Bede” appeared when 
George Elliot was in her fortieth year ; and the “ Scarlet Letter,” greater than them 
all, did not appear until 1850, when its author was in his forty-seventh year. All 
critics readily agree that this romance is the masterpiece in American fiction. 
The only novel in the United States that can be compared with it is Mrs. Stowe’s 
“ Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” and, as a study of a type of life—Puritan life in New Eng¬ 
land _“ The Scarlet Letter ” is superior to Mrs. Stowe’s immortal work. One-half 

a century has passed since “ The Scarlet Letter ” was written ; but it stands to-day 
more popular than ever before. 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


176 ' 1 

Enumerated briefly, the books written by Hawthorne in the order of their publL 
cation are as follows: “ Fanshawe,” a novel (1826), suppressed by the author; 
“Twice-Told Tales ” (1837), a collection of magazine stories; “Twice-Told 1 ales’ 
(second volume, 1845) ;“ Mosses from an Old Manse” (1846), written while he 
lived at the “ Old Manse ” ; “ The Scarlet Letter ” (1850), his greatest book ; “ The 
House of Seven Gables” (1851), written while he lived at Lenox, Massachusetts; 
“ The Wonder Book ” (1851), a volume of classic stories for children ; “ The Bly- 
thedale Romance ” (1852); “ Life of Franklin Pierce ” (1852), which was written to 
assist his friend Pierce, who was running for President of the United States ; “Tangle- 
wood Tales” (1853), another work for children, continuing the classic legends of 
his “ Wonder Book,” reciting the adventures of those who went forth to seek the 
“ Golden Fleece,” to explore the labyrinth of the “Minotaur” and sow the “Dragon’s 
Teeth.” Pierce was elected President in 1853 and rewarded Hawthorne by 
appointing him Consul to Liverpool. This position he filled for four years and 
afterwards spent three years in traveling on the Continent, during which time he 
gathered material for the greatest of his books—next to “ The Scarlet Letter ”— 
entitled “ The Marble Faun,” which was brought out in England in 1860, and the 
same year Mr. Hawthorne returned to America and spent the remainder of his life 
at “ The Wayside ” in Concord. During bis residence here he wrote for the 
“ Atlantic Monthly ” the papers which were collected and published in 1863 under 
the title of “ Our Old Home.” After Mr. Hawthorne’s death, his unpublished 
manuscripts, “ The Dolliver Romance,” “Septimius Felton ” and “ Dr. Grimshawe’s 
Secret,” were published. Mrs. Hawthorne, also, edited and published her husband’s 
“American and English Note-Books” and his “ French and Italian Note-Books” 
in 1869. The best life of the author is perhaps that written by his son, Julian 
Hawthorne, which appeared in 1885, entitled “ Nathaniel Hawthorne and His Wife ; 
a Biography.” 

A new and complete edition of Hawthorne’s works has been lately issued in 
twenty volumes; also a compact and illustrated library edition in seven volumes. 

Nathaniel Hawthorne died May 18, 1864, while traveling with his friend and 
college-mate, Ex-President Pierce, in the White Mountains, and was buried near 
where Emerson and Thoreau were later placed in Concord Cemetery. Emerson, 
Longfellow, Lowell and Whittier were at the funeral. His publisher, Mr. Field, 
was also there and wrote: “ We carried him through the blossoming orchards of 
Concord and laid him down in a group of pines on the hillside, the unfinished 
romance which had cost him such anxiety laid upon his coffin.” Mr. Longfellow, 
in an exquisite poem describes the scene, and referring to the uncompleted romance 
in the closing lines says : 

“ Ah, who shall lift that wand of magic power, 

And the lost clue regain ? 

The unfinished window in Alladin’s tower 
Unfinished must remain.” 


The noble wife, who had been the inspiration and practical stimulus of the great 
romancer, survived her distinguished husband nearly seven years. She died in 
London, aged sixty, February 26, 1871, and was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, 
near the grave of Leigh Hunt. 


































































































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NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


l 77 



HERE were circumstances around me which 
made it difficult to view the world pre¬ 
cisely as it exists; for severe and sober 
as was the Old Manse, it was necessary to go but a 
little way beyond its threshold before meeting with 
stranger moral shapes of men than might have been 
encountered elsewhere in a circuit of a thousand 
miles. These hobgoblins of flesh and blood were 
attracted thither by the wide spreading influence of 
a great original thinker who had his earthly abode at 
the opposite extremity of our village. His mind 
acted upon other minds of a certain constitution with 
wonderful magnetism, and drew many men upon long 
pilgrimages to speak with him face to face. 

Young visionaries, to whom just so much of in¬ 
sight had been imparted as to make life all a laby¬ 
rinth around them, came to seek the clew which 
should guide them out of their self-involved bewilder¬ 
ment. Gray-headed theorists, whose systems—at first 
air—had finally imprisoned them in a fiery framework, 
traveled painfully to his door, not to ask deliverance, 
but to invite the free spirit into their own thralldom. 
People that had lighted upon a new thought—or 
thought they had fancied new—came to Emerson as 
a finder of a glittering gem hastens to a lapidary to 
ascertain its quality and value. Uncertain, troubled, 
earnest wanderers through the midnight of the moral 
world beheld his intellectual fire as a beacon burning 
upon a hill-top, and climbing the difficult ascent, 
looked forth into the surrounding obscurity more 
hopefully than hitherto. The light revealed objects 
unseen before :—mountains, gleaming lakes, glimpses 
of creation among the chaos: but also, as was un¬ 
avoidable, it attracted bats and owls and the whole 
host of night-birds, which flapped their dusky wings 
against the gazer’s eyes, and sometimes were mistaken 
for fowls of angelic feather. Such delusions al- 


EMERSON AND THE EMERSONITES. 

(FROM “ MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE.”) 

ways hover nigh whenever a beacon-fire of truth is 


kindled. 

For myself there had been epochs of my life when 
I too might have asked of this prophet the master- 
word that should solve me the riddle of the uni¬ 
verse ; but now, being happy, I felt as if there were 
no question to be put; and therefore admired Emer¬ 
son as a poet of deep beauty and austere tenderness, 
but sought nothing from him as a philosopher. It 
was good, nevertheless, to meet him in the wood- 
paths, or sometimes in our avenue, with that pure 
intellectual gleam diffused about his presence, like 
the garment of a shining one; and he so quiet, so 
simple, so without pretension, encountering each man 
alive as if expecting to receive more than he could 
impart. And in truth, the heart of many a man 
had, perchance, inscriptions which he could not read. 
But it was impossible to dwell in his vicinity without 
inhaling more or less the mountain atmosphere of his 
lofty thought, which in the brains of some people 
wrought a singular giddiness—new truth being as 
heady as new wine. 

Never was a poor country village infected with 
such a variety of queer, strangely-dressed, oddly- 
behaved mortals, most of whom took upon themselves 
to be important agents of this world’s destiny, yet 
were simply bores of the first water. Such, I imagine, 
is the invariable character of persons who crowd so 
closely about an original thinker as to draw in his 
unuttered breath, and thus become imbued with a 
false originality. This triteness of novelty is enough 
to make any man of common sense blaspheme at all 
ideas of less than a century’s standing, and pray that 
the world may be petrified and rendered immovable 
in precisely the worst moral and physical state that it 
ever yet arrived at, rather than be benefitted by such 
schemes of such philosophers. 


-♦O*- 


PEARL. 


(the scarlet letter. 

E have as yet hardly spoken of the infant; 
that little creature, whose innocent life 
had sprung, by the inscrutable decree of 
Providence, a lovely and immortal flower, out of the 
12 P H 



a romance. 1850.) 

rank luxuriance of a guilty passion. How strange it 
seemed to the sad woman, as she watched the growth, 
and the beauty that became every day more brilliant, 
and the intelligence that threw its quivering sunshine 























NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


178 

over the tiny features of this child ! Her Pearl!— 
For so had Hester called her; not as a name expres¬ 
sive of her aspect, which had nothing of the calm, 
white, unimpassioned lustre that would be indicated 
by the comparison. But she named the infant 
“ Pearl,” as being of great price,—purchased with 
all she had,—her mother’s only treasure! How 
strange, indeed! Men had marked this woman’s 
sin by a scarlet letter, which had such potent and 
disastrous efficacy that no human sympathy could 
reach her, save it were sinful like herself. God, as 
a direct consequence of the sin which was thus 
punished, had given her a lovely child, whose place 
was on that same dishonored bosom, to connect her 
parent forever with the race and descent of mortals, 
and to be finally a blessed soul in heaven ! Yet 
these thoughts affected Hester Prynne less with 
hope than apprehension. She knew that her deed 
had been evil; she could have no faith, therefore, 
that its result would be good. Day after day, she 
looked fearfully into the child’s expanding nature, 
ever dreading to detect some dark and wild pecu¬ 
liarity, that should correspond with the guiltiness to 
which she owed her being. 

Certainly, there was no physical defect. By its 
perfect shape, its vigor, and its natural dexterity in 
the use of all its untried limbs, the infant was worthy 
to have been brought forth in Eden ; worthy to have 
been left there, to be the plaything of the angels, 
after the world’s first parents were driven out. The 
child had a native grace which does not invariably 
coexist with faultless beauty; its attire, however 
simple, always impressed the beholder as if it were 
the very garb that precisely became it best. But 
little Pearl was not clad in rustic weeds. Her mother, 
with a morbid purpose that may be better understood 
hereafter, had bought the richest tissues that could 
be procured, and allowed her imaginative faculty its 
full play in the arrangement and decoration of the 
dresses which the child wore, before the public eye. 
So magnificent was the small figure, when thus 
arrayed, and such was the splendor of Pearl’s own 
proper beauty, shining through the gorgeous robes 
which might have extinguished a paler loveliness, 


that there was an absolute circle of radiance around 
her, on the darksome cottage floor. And yet a rus¬ 
set gown, torn and soiled with the child’s rude play, 
made a picture of her just as perfect. Pearl’s as¬ 
pect was imbued with a spell of infinite variety ; in 
this one child there were many children, comprehend¬ 
ing the full scope between the wild-flower prettiness 
of a peasant-baby, and the pomp, in little, of an in¬ 
fant princess. Throughout all, however, there was a 
trait of passion, a certain depth of hue, which she 
never lost; and if, in any of her changes she had 
grown fainter or paler, she would have ceased to be 
herself,—it would have been no longer Pearl! 

One peculiarity of the child’s deportment remains 
yet to be told. The very first thing which she had 
noticed, in her life, was—what?—not the mother’s 
smile, responding to it, as other babies do, by that 
faint embryo smile of the little mouth, remembered 
so doubtfully afterwards, and with such fond discus 
sion whether it were indeed a smile. By no means ! 
But that first object of which Pearl seemed to become 
aware was—shall we say it ?—the scarlet letter on 
Hester’s bosom ! One day, as the mother stooped 
over the cradle, the infant’s eyes had been caught by 
the glimmering of the gold embroidery about the 
letter ; and, putting up her little hand, she grasped 
at it, smiling, not doubtfully, but with a decided 
gleam, that gave her face the look of a much older 
child. Then, gasping for breath, did Hester Prynne 
clutch the fatal token, instinctively endeavoring to 
tear it away; so infinite was the torture inflicted by 
the intelligent touch of Pearl’s baby-hand. Again, 
as if her mother’s agonized gesture were meant only 
to make sport of her, did little Pearl look into her 
eyes, and smile ! From that epoch, except when the 
child was asleep, Hester had never felt a moment’s 
safety; not a moment’s calm enjoyment of her. 
Weeks, it is true, would sometimes elapse, during 
which Pearl's gaze might never once be fixed upon 
the scarlet letter; but then, again, it would come at 
unawares, like the stroke of sudden death, and always 
with that peculiar smile and odd expression of the 
eyes. 






NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


179 


SIGHTS FROM 

OW various are the situations of the people 
covered by the roofs beneath me, and how 
I diversified are the events at this moment 
befalling them ! The new-born, the aged, the dying, 
the strong in life, and the recent dead, are in the cham¬ 
bers of these many mansions. The full of hope, the 
happy, the miserable, and the desperate, dwell 
together within the circle of my glance. In some of 
the houses over which my eyes roam so coldly, guilt 
is entering into hearts that are still tenanted by a 
debased and trodden virtue—guilt is on the very 
edge of commission, and the impending deed might 
be averted ; guilt is done, and the criminal wonders 
if it be irrevocable. There are broad thoughts strug¬ 
gling in my mind, and, were I able to give them dis¬ 
tinctness, they would make their w r ay in eloquence. 
Lo ! the rain-drops are descending. 

The clouds, within a little lime, have gathered 
over all the sky, hanging heavily, as if about to drop 
in one unbroken mass upon the earth. At intervals 
the lightning flashes from their brooding hearts, 
quivers, disappears, and then comes the thunder, 
traveling slowly after its twin-born flame. A strong 
wind has sprung up, howls through the darkened 
streets, and raises the dust in dense bodies, to rebel 
against the approaching storm. All people hurry 
homeward—all that have a home; while a few 
lounge by the corners, or trudge on desperately, at 
their leisure. 

And now the storm lets loose its fury. In every 


A STEEPLE. 

dwelling I perceive the faces of the chambermaids 
as they shut down the windows, excluding the im¬ 
petuous shower, and shrinking away from the quick, 
fiery glare. The large drops descend with force upon 
the slated roofs, and rise again in smoke. There is a 
rush and roar, as of a river through the air, and 
muddy streams bubble majestically along the pave¬ 
ment, whirl their dusky foam into the kennel, and 
disappear beneath iron grates. Thus did Arethusa 
sink. I love not my station here aloft, in the midst 
of the tumult which I am powerless to direct or quell, 
with the blue lightning wrinkling on my brow, and 
the thunder muttering its first awful syllables in my 
ear. I will descend. Yet let me give another glance 
to the sea, where the foam breaks in long white lines 
upon a broad expanse of blackness, or boils up in far- 
distant points, like snowy mountain-tops in the eddies 
of a flood; and let me look once more at the green 
plain, and little hills of the country, over which the 
giant of the storm is riding in robes of mist, and at 
the town, whose obscured and desolate streets might 
beseem a city of the dead; and turning a single 
moment to the sky, now gloomy as an author’s pros¬ 
pects, I prepare to resume my station on lower earth. 
But stay ! A little speck of azure has widened in 
the western heavens ; the sunbeams find a passage, 
and go rejoicing through the tempest; and on yonder 
darkest cloud, born, like hallowed hopes, of the glory 
of another world, and the trouble and tears of this, 
brightens forth the Rainbow ! 



A REMINISCENCE OF EARLY LIFE. 

(FROM AMERICAN NOTE BOOKS.) 


Salem, Oct. 4th. 

Union Street , \_Family Mansion. 

. . . Here I sit in my old accustomed chamber, 
where I used to sit in days gone by. . . . Here I 
have written many tales,—many that have been 
burned to ashes, many that doubtless deserved the 
same fate. This claims to be called a haunted 
chamber, for thousands upon thousands of visions 
have appeared to me in it; and some few of them 
have become visible to the world. If ever I should 
have a biographer, he ought to make great mention 


of this chamber in my memoirs, because so much of 
my lonely youth was wasted here, and here my mind 
and character were formed; and here I have been 
glad and hopeful, and here I have been des¬ 
pondent. And here I sat a long, long time, wait¬ 
ing patiently for the world to know me, and some¬ 
times wondering why it did not know me sooner, or 
whether it would ever know me at all,—at least, 
till I were in my grave. And sometimes it seemed 
as if I were already in the grave, with only life 
enough to be chilled and benumbed. But oftener 










180 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


I was happy,—at least, as happy as I then knew how 
to be, or was aware of the possibility of being. 
By and by, the world found me out in my lonely 
chamber, and called me forth,—not, indeed, with a 
loud roar of acclamation, but rather with a still, small 
voice,—and forth I went, but found nothing in the 
world that I thought preferable to my old solitude 
till now. . . . And now I begin to understand why 
I was imprisoned so many years in this lonely 
chamber, and why I could never break through the 
viewless bolts and bars; for if I had sooner made 
my escape into the world, I should have grown 
hard and rough, and been covered with earthly dust, 
and my heart might have become callous by rude 
encounters with the multitude. . . But living in 
solitude till the fulness of time was come, I still 
kept the dew of my youth, and the freshness of 
my heart. ... I used to think that I could imagine 


all passions, all feelings, and states of the heart and 
mind; but how little did I know ! . . Indeed, we are 
but shadows ; we are not endowed with real life, 
and all that seems most real about us is but the thin¬ 
nest substance of a dream,—till the heart be touched. 
That touch creates us,—then we begin to be,—there¬ 
by we are beings of reality and inheritors of 
eternity. . . 

When we shall be endowed with our spiritual bodies. 
I think that they will be so constituted that we may 
send thoughts and feelings any distance in no time 
at all, and transfuse them, warm and fresh, into the 
consciousness of those whom we love. . . . But 
after all, perhaps it is not wise to intermix fantas¬ 
tic ideas with the reality of affection. Let us con¬ 
tent ourselves to be earthly creatures, and hold com' 
munion of spirit in such modes as are ordaine# 
to us. 








EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 


“ THE ROBINSON CRUSOE OF AMERICA.” 



DWARD EVERETT HALE is to-day one of the best known and 
most beloved of American authors. He is also a lecturer of note. 
He has probably addressed as many audiences as any man in America. 
His work as a preacher, as a historian and as a story-teller, entitles 
him to fame; but his life has also been largely devoted to the forma¬ 
tion of organizations to better the moral, social and educational 
conditions of the young people of his own and other lands. Recently he has been 
deeply interested in the great Chautauqua movement, which he has done much to 
develop. 

His name is a household word in American homes, and the keynote of his useful 
life may be expressed by the motto of one of his most popular books, “Ten Times 
One is Ten:”—“Look up and not down ! Look forward and not backward! Look 
out and not in! Lend a hand ! ” 

Edward Everett Hale was born in Boston, Massachusetts, April 3, 1822. He 
graduated at Harvard University in 1839, at the age of seventeen years. He took 
a post graduate course for two years in a Latin school and read theology and church 
history. It was in 1842 that he was licensed to preach by the Boston Association 
of Congregational Ministers. During the winter of 1844-45 he served a church in 
Washington, but removed the next year to Worcester, Massachusetts, where he 
remained for ten years. In 1856 he was called to the South Congregational 
(Unitarian) Church in Boston, which he has served for more than three decades. 

When a boy young Hale learned to set type in his father’s printing office, and 
afterwards served on the “ Daily Advertiser,” it is said, in every capacity from 
reporter up to editor-in-chief. Before he was twenty-one years old he wrote a large 
part of the “Monthly Chronicle ” and “Boston Miscellany,” and from that time to 
the present has done an immense amount of newspaper and magazine work. He 
at one time edited the “Christian Examiner” and also the “Sunday School Gazette.” 
He founded a magazine entitled “The Old and the New” in 1869, which was after¬ 
wards merged into “Scribner’s Monthly.” In 1866 he began the publication of 
“Lend a Hand, a Record of Progress and Journal of Organized Charity.” 

As a writer of short stories, no man of modern times, perhaps, is his superior, if 
indeed he has any equals. “My Double and How He Undid Me,” published in 
1859, was the first of his works to strike strongly the popular fancy; but it was 
“The Man Without a Country,” issued in 1863, which entitled its author to a prom- 

181 





























182 


EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 


inent place among the classic short story-tellers of America, and produced a deep 
impression on the public mind. His “ Skeleton in a Closet’’ followed in 1866; and, 
since that time his prolific pen has sent forth in the form of books and magazine 
articles, a continuous stream of the most entertaining literature in our language. 
He has the faculty of De Foe in giving to his stories the appearance of reality, and 
thus has gained for himself the title of “The Robinson Crusoe of America.” 

Mr. Hale is also an historical writer and a student of great attainment, and has 
contributed many papers of rare value to the historical and antiquarian societies of 
both Europe and America. He is, perhaps, the greatest of all living authorities 
on Spanish-American affairs. He is the editor of “Original Documents from the 
State Paper Office, London, and the British Museum; illustrating the History of 
Sir Walter Raleigh’s First American Colony at Jamestown,” and other historical 
works. 

Throughout his life, Mr. Hale has always taken a patriotic interest in public 
affairs for the general good of the nation. While he dearly loves his native New 
England hills, his patriotism is bounded by nonarrow limits; it is as wide as his 
country. His voice is always the foremost among those raised in praise or in defence 
of our national institutions and our liberties. His influence has always been exerted 
to make men and women better citizens and better Americans. 


-•o*- 


LOST* 

(FROM “ PHILIP NOLAN’S FRIENDS.”) 



UT as she ran, the path confused her. 
Could she have passed that flaming sassa¬ 
fras without so much as noticing it ? Any 
way she should recognize the great mass of bays 
where she had last noticed the panther’s tracks. She 
had seen them as she ran on, and as she came up. 
She hurried on; but she certainly had returned 
much farther than she went, when she came out 
on a strange log flung up in some freshet, which 
she knew she had not seen before. And there was 
no clump of bays. Was this being lost? Was she 
lost ? Why, Inez had to confess to herself that she 
was lost just a little bit, but nothing to be afraid of; 
but still lost enough to talk about afterwards she cer¬ 
tainly was. 

Yet, as she said to herself again and again, she 
could not be a quarter of a mile, nor half a quarter 
of a mile from camp. As soon as they missed 
her—and by this time they had missed her— 
they would be out to look for her. How provoking 
that she, of all the party, should make so much 
bother to the rest! They would watch her now 
like so many cats all the rest of the way. What 


a fool she was ever to leave the knoll! So Inez 
stopped again, shouted again, and listened and 
listened, to hear nothing but a swamp-owl. 

If the sky had been clear, she would have had no 
cause for anxiety. In that case they would have 
light enough to find her in. She would have had the 
sunset glow to steer by; and she would have had no 
difficulty in finding them. But with this horrid gray 
over everything she dared not turn round, without 
fearing that she might lose the direction in which 
the theory of the moment told her she ought to be 
faring. And these openings which she had called 
trails—which were probably broken by wild horses 
and wild oxen as they came down to the bayou to 
drink—would not go in one direction for ten paces. 
They bent right and left, this way and that; so that 
without some sure token of sun or star, it was impos¬ 
sible, as Inez felt, to know which way she was 
walking. 

And at last this perplexity increased. She was 
conscious that the sun must have set, and that the 
twilight, never long, was now fairly upon her. All 
the time there was this fearful silence, only broken 


* Copyright, Roberts Bros. 










EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 


183 


by her own voice and that hateful owl. Was she 
wise to keep on in her theories of this way or that 
way ? She had never yet come back, either upon 
the fallen cottonwood tree, or upon the bunch of bays 
which was her landmark; and it was doubtless her 
wisest determination to stay where she was. The 
chances that the larger party would find her were 
much greater than that she alone would find them ; 
but by this time she was sure that, if she kept on in 
any direction, there was an even chance that she was 
! going farther and farther wrong. 

But it was too cold for her to sit down, wrap her¬ 
self never so closely in her shawl. The poor girl 
tried this. She must keep in motion. Back and 
forth she walked, fixing her march by signs which 
she could not mistake even in the gathering darkness. 
How fast that darkness gathered ! The wind seemed 
to rise, too, as the night came on, and a fine rain, 
that seemed as cold as snow to her, came to give the 
last drop to her wretchedness. If she were tempted 
for a moment to abandon her sentry-beat, and try 
this wild experiment or that, to the right or left, 
some odious fallen trunk, wet with moss and decay, 
lay just where she pressed into the shrubbery, as if 
placed there to reveal to her her absolute powerless¬ 
ness. She was dead with cold, and even in all her 
wretchedness knew that she was hungry. How 
stupid to be hungry when she had so much else to 


trouble her ! But at least she would make a system 
of her march. She would walk fifty times this way, 
to the stump, and fifty times that way ; then she 
would stop and cry out and sound her war-whoop; 
then she would take up her sentry-march again. 
And so she did. This way, at least, time would not 
pass without her knowing whether it was midnight 
or no. 

“ Hark ! God be praised, there is a gun ! and there 
is another ! and there is another ! They have come 
on the right track, and I am safe !” So she shouted 
again, and sounded her war-whoop again, and list¬ 
ened,—and then again, and listened again. One 
more gun ! but then no more! Poor Inez! Cer¬ 
tainly they were all on one side of her. If only it 
was not so piteously dark ! If she could only walk 
half the distance in that direction which her fifty 
sentry-beats made put together! But when she 
struggled that way through the tangle, and over one 
wet log and another, it was only to find her poor wet 
feet sinking down into mud and water ! She did not 
dare keep on. All that was left for her was to find 
her tramping-ground again, and this she did. 

“ Good God, take care of me! My poor dear 
father—what would he say if he knew his child was 
dying close to her friends? Bear mamma, keep 
watch over your little girl!”— 














llllllllllllllllllllllUllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllUillllllllllllllllllllllUIIIUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII'llllllllll'IIIUIIIIIIIIIIHIHIIIIII 




WM. DEAN HOWELLS. 


(the REALISTIC NOVELIST OF AMERICA.) 





HE West lias contributed many notable men to our nation within the 
last half of the present century. There seems to be something in 
the spirit of that developing section to stimulate the aspirations and 
ambitions of those who grow up in its atmosphere. Progress, Enter¬ 
prise, “Excelsior” are the three words written upon its banner as the 
motto for the sons of the middle West. It is there w T e go for many 


of our leading statesmen. Thence we draw our presidents more largely than from 
any other section, and the world of modern literature is also seeking and finding 
its cliiefest leaders among the sons and daughters of that region. True they are 
generally transplanted to the Eastern centres of publication and commercial life, 
but they were born and grew up in the West. 

Notably among the examples which might be cited, we mention William Dean 
Howells, one of the greatest of modern American novelists, who was born at Martin’s 
Ferry, Ohio, March 1st, 1837. Mr. Howells did not enjoy the advantage of a col¬ 
legiate education. At twelve years of age he began to set type in his father’s print¬ 
ing office, which he followed until he reached manhood, employing his odd time in 
writing articles and verses for the newspapers, and while quite young did editorial 
work for a leading daily in Cincinnati. At the age of twenty-one, in 1858, he 
became the editor of the “Ohio State Journal” at Columbus. Two years later he 
published in connection with John James Piatt a small volume of verse entitled 
“Poems of two Friends.” These youthful effusions were marked by that crystal 
like clearness of thought, grace and artistic elegance of expression which charac¬ 
terize his later writings. Mr. Howells came prominently before the public in 1860 
by publishing a carefully written and most excellent “ Life of Abraham Lincoln ” 
which was extensively sold and read during that most exciting presidential campaign, 
and no doubt contributed much to the success of the candidate. Mr. Lincoln, in 
furnishing data for this work, became well acquainted with the young author of 
twenty-three and was so impressed with his ability in grasping and discussing state 
affairs, and good sense generally, that he appointed him as cousul to Venice. 

During four years’ residence in that city Mr. Howells, in addition to his official 
duties, learned the Italian language and studied its literature. He also here gath¬ 
ered the material for two books, “Venitian Life” and “Italian Journeys.” He 
arranged for the publication of the former in London as he passed through that city 
in 1865 on his way home. The latter was brought out in America on his return, 

184 



























WM. DEAN HOWELLS. 


185 


appearing in 1867. Neither of these works are novels. “ Venetian Life” is a 
delightful ^description of the manners and customs of real life in Venice. “Italian 
Journeys . is a charming portrayal—almost a kinetoscopic view—of his journey 
from Venice to Rome by the roundabout way of Genoa and Naples, with a visit to 
Pompeii and Herculaneum, including artistic etchings of notable scenes. 

lhe first attempt of Mr. Howells at story-telling, “Their Wedding Journey,” ap¬ 
peared in 1871. This, while ranking as a novel, was really a description of an actual 
bridal tour across New Tork. “A Chance Acquaintance” (1873) was a more com¬ 
plete novel, but evidently it was a venture of the imagination upon ground that had 
proven fruitful in real life. It was modeled after “The Wedding Journey,” but 
described a holiday season spent in journeying up the St. Lawrence River, stopping 
at Quebec and Saguenay. 

Since 1874 Mr. Howells has published one or more novels annually, among which 
are the following: “A Foregone Conclusion” (1874), “A Counterfeit Presentment” 
(1877), “The Lady of the Aroostook” (1878), “The Undiscovered Country” (1880), 
“A Fearful Responsibility” (1882), “A Modern Instance” and “Hr. Breen’s Prac¬ 
tice” (1883), “A Woman’s Reason” (1884), “Tuscan Cities” and “The Rise of 
Silas Lapham” (1885), “The Minister’s Charge” and “Indian Summer” (1886), 
“April Hopes” (1887), “Annie Kilburn” (1888), “Hazard of New Fortune” (1889). 
Since 1890 Mr. Howells has continued his literary activity with increased, rather 
than abating,energy. Among his noted later novels are “A Traveler from Altruria” 
and “The Landlord at Lion’s Head” (the latter issued in 1897). Other notable 
books of his are “Stops at Various Quills,” “My Literary Passion,” “Library of 
Universal Adventure,” “Modern Italian Poets,” “Christmas Every Hay” and “A 
Boy’s Town,” the two last mentioned being for juvenile readers, with illustrations. 

Mr. Howells’ accurate attention to details gives to his stories a most realistic flavor, 
making his books seem rather photographic than artistic. He shuns imposing char¬ 
acters and thrilling incidents, and makes much of interesting people and ordinary 
events in our social life. A broad grasp of our national characteristics and an inti¬ 
mate acquaintance with our institutions gives him a facility in producing minute 
studies of certain aspects of society and types of character, which no other writer 
in America has approached. For instance, his “Undiscovered Country” was an 
exhaustive study and presentation of spiritualism, as it is witnessed and taught in 
New England. And those who admire Mr. Howells’ writings will find in “The 
Landlord at Lion’s Head” a clear-cut statement of the important sociological prob¬ 
lem yet to be solved, upon the other; which problem is also characteristic of other 
of his books. Thoughtful readers of Mr. Howells’ novels gain much information on 
vital questions of society and government, which broaden the mind and cannot fail 
to be of permanent benefit. 

From 1872 to 1881 Mr. Howells was editor of the “Atlantic Monthly,” and since 
1886 he has conducted the department known as the “Editor’s Study” in “Harper’s 
Magazine,” contributing much to other periodicals at the same time. He is also well 
known as a poet, but has so overshadowed this side of himself by his greater power 
as a novelist, that he is placed with that class of writers. In 1873 a collection of 
his poems was published. While in Venice he wrote “No Love Lost; a Romance 
of Travel,” which was published in 1869, and stamped him as a poet of ability. 



186 


WM. DEAN HOWELLS. 


THE FIRST BOARDER. 

(FROM “ THE LANDLORD AT LION’S HEAD.” 1897.) 


By Permission of Messrs. Harper & Brothers, Publishers. 


HE table was set for him alone, and it af¬ 
fected him as if the family had been hur¬ 
ried away from it that he might have it 
to himself. Everything was very simple; the iron 
forks had two prongs ; the knives bone handles ; the 
dull glass was pressed; the heavy plates and cups 
were white, but so was the cloth, and all were clean. 
The woman brought in a good boiled dinner of corned 
beef, potatoes, turnips and carrots, from the kitchen, 
and a teapot, and said something about having kept 
them hot on the stove for him; she brought him a 
plate of biscuit fresh from the oven; then she said 
to the boy, “ You come out and have your dinner 
with me, Jeff,” and left the guest to make his meal 
unmolested. 

The room was square, with two north windows 
that looked down the lane he had climbed to the 
house. An open door led into the kitchen in an ell, 
and a closed door opposite probably gave access to a 
parlor or a ground-floor chamber. The windows were 
darkened down to the lower sash by green paper 
shades; the walls were papered in a pattern of 
brown roses; over the chimney hung a large picture, 
a life-size pencil-drawing of two little girls, one 
slightly older and slightly larger than the other, each 
with round eyes and precise ringlets, and with her 
hand clasped in the other’s hand. 

The guest seemed helpless to take his gaze from it, 
and he sat fallen back in his chair gazing at it, when 
the woman came in with a pie. 

“ Thank you, I believe I don’t want any dessert,” 
he said. “ The fact is, the dinner was so good that 
I haven’t left any room for pie. Are those your 
children ?” 

“ Yes,” said the woman, looking up at the picture 
with the pie in her hand. “ They’re the last two I lost.” 

“ Oh, excuse me !” the guest began. 

“ It’s the way they appear in the spirit life. It’s a 
spirit picture.” 



“ Oh! I thought there was something strange 
about it.” 

“ Well, it’s a good deal like the photographs we 
had taken about a year before they died. It’s a good 
likeness. They say they don’t change a great deal, 
at first.” 

She seemed to refer the point to him for his judg¬ 
ment ; but he answered wide of it: 

“ I came up here to paint your mountain, if you 
don’t mind, Mrs. Durgin—Lion’s Head, I mean.” 

“Oh, yes. Well I don’t know as we could stop 
you, if you wanted to take it away.” A spare glim¬ 
mer lighted up her face. 

The painter rejoined in kind. “ The town might 
have something to say, I suppose.” 

“ Not if you was to leave a good piece of intervale 
in place of it. We’ve got mountains to spare.” 

“ Well, then, that’s arranged. What about a 
week’s board?” 

“ I guess you can stay, if you’re satisfied.” 

“ I’ll be satisfied if I can stay. How much do 
you want?” 

The woman looked down, probably with an inward 
anxiety between the fear of asking too much and the 
folly of asking too little. She said, tentatively, 
“ Some of the folks that come over from the hotels 
say they pay as much as twenty dollars a week.” 

“ But you don’t expect hotel prices?” 

“ I don’t know as I do. We’ve never had any 
body before.” 

The stranger relaxed the frown he had put on at 
the greed of her suggestion ; it might have come 
from ignorance or mere innocence, “ I’m in the habit 
of paying five dollars for farm board, where I stayed 
several week’s. What do you say to seven for a 
single week?” 

“ I guess that’ll do,” said the woman, and she went 
out with the pie, which she had kept in her hand- 











WM. DEAN HOWELLS. 


187 


IMPRESSIONS ON VISITING POMPEII* 

FROM “ ITALIAN JOURNEYS.” 1867. 


alike: the entrance-room next the door; the parlor 


HE cotton whitens over two-thirds of Pom¬ 
peii yet interred : happy the generation 
that lives to learn the wondrous secrets of 
that sepulchre! For, when you have once been at 
Pompeii, this phantasm of the past takes deeper hold 
on your imagination than any living city, and becomes 
and is the metropolis of your dream-land forever. 
0 marvellous city ! who shall reveal the cunning of 
your spell ? Something not death, something not 
life,—something that is the one wdien you turn to 
determine its essence as the other ! What is it comes 
to me at this distance of that which I saw in Pom¬ 
peii ? The narrow and curving, but not crooked 
streets, with the blazing sun of that Neapolitan 
November falling into them, or clouding their wheel- 
worn lava with the black, black shadows of the 
many-tinted walls ; the houses, and the gay columns 
of white, yellow, and red; the delicate pavements of 
mosaic; the skeletons of dusty cisterns and dead 
fountains; inanimate garden-spaces with pygmy 
statues suited to their littleness ; suites of fairy bed¬ 
chambers, painted with exquisite frescos; dining- 
halls with joyous scenes of hunt and banquet on 
their walls ; the ruinous sites of temples ; the melan¬ 
choly emptiness of booths and shops and jolly drink¬ 
ing-houses ; the lonesome tragic theatre, with a mod¬ 
ern Pompeian drawing water from a well there; the 
baths with their roofs perfect yet, and the stucco 
bass-reliefs all but unharmed ; around the whole, the 
city wall crowned with slender poplars; outside the 
gates, the long avenue of tombs, and the Appian 
Way stretching on to Stabim; and, in the distance, 
Vesuvius, brown and bare, with his fiery breath 
scarce visible against the cloudless heaven ; these are 
the things that float before my fancy as I turn back 
to look at myself walking those enchanted streets, 
and to wonder if I could ever have been so blest. 
For there is nothing on the earth, or under it, like 
Pompeii. . . . 

THE HOUSES OF POMPEII AND THEIR PAINTED 

WALLS. 

From u Italian Journeys'' 

The plans of nearly all the houses in the city are 


or drawing-room next that; then the impluvium , or 
unroofed space in the middle of the house, where the 
rains were caught and drained into the cistern, and 
where the household used to come to wash itself, 
primitively, as at a pump ; the little garden, with its 
painted columns, behind the impluvium , and, at last, 
the dining-room. 

After referring to the frescos on the walls that 
have remained for nearly two thousand years and the 
wonder of the art by which they were produced, 
Mr. Howells thus continues : 

Of course the houses of the rich were adorned by 
men of talent; but it is surprising to see the com¬ 
munity of thought and feeling in all this work, 
whether it be from cunninger or clumsier hands. The 
subjects are nearly always chosen from the fables of 
the gods, and they are in illustration of the poets, 
Homer and the rest. To suit that soft, luxurious 
life which people led in Pompeii, the themes are 
commonly amorous, and sometimes not too chaste: 
there is much of Bacchus and Ariadne, much of 
Venus and Adonis, and Diana bathes a good deal 
with her nymphs,—not to mention frequent represen¬ 
tations of the toilet of that beautiful monster which 
the lascivious art of the time loved to depict. One 
of the most pleasing of all the scenes is that in one 
of the houses, of the Judgment of Paris, in which 
the shepherd sits upon a bank in an attitude of 
ineffable and flattered importance, with one leg care¬ 
lessly crossing the other, and both hands resting 
lightly on his shepherd’s crook, while the goddesses 
before him await his sentence. Naturally, the 
painter has done his best for the victress in this 
rivalry, and you see 

“Idalian Aphrodite beautiful,” 

as she should be, but with a warm and piquant spice of 
girlish resentment in her attitude, that Paris should 
pause for an instant, which is altogether delicious. 

“And I beheld great Here’s angry eyes.” 



•* Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin k Co. 






188 


WM. DEAN HOWELLS. 


Awful eyes! How did the painter make them ? 
The wonder of all these pagan frescos is the mystery 
of the eyes,—still, beautiful, unhuman. You can¬ 
not believe that it is wrong for those tranquil-eyed 
men and women to do evil, they look so calm and so 
unconscious in it all; and in the presence of the 
celestials, as they bend upon you those eternal orbs, 
in whose regard you are but a part of space, you feel 
that here art has achieved the unearthly. I know of 


no words in literature which give a sense (nothing 
gives the idea) of the stare of these gods, except 
that magnificent line of Kingsley's, describing the 
advance over the sea toward Andromeda of the 
oblivious and unsympathizing Nereids. They floated 
slowly up and their eyes 

“Stared on her, silent and still, like the eyes in the 
house of the idols." 




VENETIAN VAGABONDS* 

(FROM “VENETIAN LIFE.” 1867.) 


HE lasagnone is a loafer, as an Italian can 
be a loafer, without the admixture of 
ruffianism, which blemishes lost loafers of 
northern race. He may be quite worthless, and even 
impertinent, but he cannot be a rowdy—that pleasing 
blossom on the nose of our fast, high-fed, thick- 
blooded civilization. In Venice he must not be 
confounded with other loiterers at the cafe; not 
with the natty people who talk politics interminably 
over little cups of black coffee; not with those old 
habitues, who sit forever under the Procuratie, their 
lands folded upon the top of their sticks, and stare 
at the ladies who pass with a curious steadfastness 
and knowing skepticism of gaze, not pleasing in the 
dim eyes of age; certainly, the last persons who bear 
any likeness to the lasagnone are the Germans, with 
their honest, heavy faces comically anglicized by leg- 
of-mutton whiskers. The truth is, the lasagnone 
does not flourish in the best cafe ; he comes to per- 
fection in cheaper resorts, for he is commonly not 
rich. 

It often happens that a glass of water, flavored with 
a little anisette, is the order over which he sits a 
whole evening. He knows the waiter intimately, and 
does not call him “ Shop ! ” (Bottega) as less familiar 
people do, but Gigi, or Beppi, as the waiter is pretty 
sure to be named. “ Behold ! ” he says, when the 
servant places his modest drink before him, “ who is 
that loveliest blonde there ? ” Or to his fellow-lasag- 
none : “ She regards me ! I have broken her heart! ” 
This is his sole business and mission, the cruel lasag¬ 


none—to break the ladies’ hearts. He spares no 
condition—neither rank nor wealth is any defence 
against him. I often wonder what is in that note he 
continually shows to his friend. The confession of 
some broken heart, I think. When he has folded 
it and put it away, he chuckles, “Ah, cara! ” and 
sucks at his long, slender Virginia cigar. It is 
unlighted, for fire consumes cigars. I never see 
him read the papers—neither the Italian papers nor 
the Parisian journals, though if he can get “ Galig- 
nani ” he is glad, and he likes to pretend to a knowl¬ 
edge of English, uttering upon the occasion, wit T 
great relish, such distinctively English words as 
“Yes” and “Not,” and to the waiter, “A-little-fire- 
if-you-please.” He sits very late in the cafe, he 
touches his hat—his curly French hat—to the com¬ 
pany as he goes out with a mild swagger, his cane 
held lightly in his left hand, his coat cut snugly to 
show his hips, and genteely swaying with the motion 
of his body. He is a dandy, of course—all Italians 
are dandies—but his vanity is perfectly harmless, and 
his heart is not bad. He would go half an hour 
to put you in the direction of the Piazza. A little 
thing can make him happy—to stand in the pit at 
the opera, and gaze at the ladies in the lower boxes 
—to attend the Marionette or the Malibran Theatre, 
and imperil the peace of pretty seamstresses and con- 
tadinas—to stand at the church doors and ogle the 
fair saints as they pass out. Go, harmless lasagnone, 
to thy lodging in some mysterious height, and break 
hearts if thou wilt. They are quickly mended. 



* By special permission of the author and of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 











GENERAL LEWIS WALLACE. 


AUTHOR OF “BEN HUIl.” 



HERE is an old adage which declares “without fame or fortune at 
forty, without fame or fortune always.” This, however is not invar¬ 
iably true. Hawthorne became famous when he wrote “Scarlet 
Letter” at forty-six, Sir Walter Scott produced the first Waverly 
Novel after he was forty; and we find another exception in the case 
of the soldier author who is made the subject of this sketch. Per¬ 
haps no writer of modern times has gained so wide a reputation on so few books 
or began his literary career so late in life as the author of “The Fair God;” “Ben 
Hur” and “The Prince of India.” It was not until the year 1873 that General 
Lewis Wallace at the age of forty-six became known to literature. Prior to this he 
had filled the double position of lawyer and soldier, and it was his observations and 
experiences in the Mexican War, no doubt, which inspired him to write “The Fair 
God,” his first book, which was a story of the conquest of that country. 

Lew. Wallace was born at Brookville, Indiana, in 1827. After receiving a com¬ 
mon school education, he began the study of law; but on the breaking out of the 
Mexican War, he volunteered in the army as a lieutenant in an Indiana company. 
On his return from the war, in 1848, he took up the practice of his profession in 
his native state and also served in the legislature. Near the beginning of the Civil 
War he became colonel of a volunteer regiment. His military service was of such 
a character that he received sj)ecial mention from General Grant for meritorious 
conduct and was made major-general in March, 1862. He was mustered out of 
service when the war closed in 1865 and resumed his practice of law at his old 
home in Crawfordsville. In 1873, as stated above, his first book, “The Fair God,” 
was published; but it met with only moderate success. In 1878, General Wallace 
was made Territorial Governor of Utah and in 1880, “Ben Hur; a Tale of The 
Christ” appeared. The scene was laid in the East and displayed such a knowledge 
of the manners and customs of that country and people that General Garfield—that 
year elected President—considered its author a fitting person for the Turkish 
Ministry, and accordingly, in 1881, he was appointed to that position. It is said 
that when President Garfield gave General Wallace his appointment, he wrote the 
words “Ben Hur” across the corner of the document, and, as Wallace was coming 
away from his visit of acknowledgement at the White House, the President put his 
arm over his friend’s shoulder and said, “I expect another book out of you. Your 
duties will not be too onerous to allow you to write it. Locate the scene in 

189 
































190 


GENERAL LEWIS WALLACE. 


Constantinople.” This suggestion was, no doubt, General Wallace’s reason for 
writing “ The Prince of India,” which was published in 1890 and is the last 
book issued by its author. He had in the mean time, however, published “ The 
Boyhood of Christ ” (1888). 

None of the other books of the author have been so popular or reached the great 
success attained by “ Ben Hur,” which has had the enormous sale of nearly one-half 
million copies without at any time being forced upon the market in the form of a 
cheap edition. It is remarkable also to state that the early circulation of “ Ben 
Hur,” while it was appreciated by a certain class, was too small to warrant the 
author in anticipating the fortune which he afterwards harvested from this book. 
Before General Wallace was made Minister to Turkey, the book-sellers bought it in 
quantities of two, three or a dozen at a time, and it was not until President Garfield 
had honored the author with this significant portfolio that the trade commenced to 
call for it in thousand lots. 

- +0* - 


DESCRIPTION OF CHRIST* 

(FROM “ BEN HUR.” 1880.) 


HE head was open to the cloudless light, ex¬ 
cept as it was draped with long hair and 
slightly waved, and parted in the middle, 
and auburn in tint, with a tendency to reddish golden 
where most strongly touched by the sun. Under a 
broad, low forehead, under black well-arched brows, 
beamed eyes dark blue and large, and softened to ex¬ 
ceeding tenderness by lashes of great length some¬ 
times seen on children, but seldom, if ever, on men. 
As to the other features, it would have been difficult 
to decide whether they were Greek or Jewish. The 
delicacy of the nostrils and mouth was unusually to 
the latter type, and when it was taken into account 
with the gentleness of the eyes, the pallor of the 
complexion, the fine texture of the hair and the soft¬ 
ness of the beard, which fell in waves over His throat 
to His breast, never a soldier but would have laughed 
at Him in encounter, never a woman who would not 
have confided in Him at sight, never a child that 


would not, with quick instinct, have given Him its 
hand and whole artless trust, nor might any one have 
said He was not beautiful. 

The features, it should be further said, were ruled 
by a certain expression which, as the viewer chose, 
might with equal correctness have been called the 
effect of intelligence, love, pity or sorrow, though, in 
better speech, it was a blending of them all—a look 
easy to fancy as a mark of a sinless soul doomed to 
the sight and understanding of the utter sinfulness 
of those among whom it was passing; yet withal no 
one could have observed the face with a thought 
of weakness in the man; so, at least, w r ould not 
they who know that the qualities mentioned—love, 
sorrow, pity—are the results of a consciousness of 
strength to bear suffering oftener than strength to do; 
such has been the might of martyrs and devotees 
and the myriads written down in saintly calendars; 
and such, indeed, was the air of this one. 



THE PRINCE OF INDIA TEACHES REINCARNATION* 

(FROM THE “ PRINCE OF INDIA.” 1890.) 


HE Holy Father of Light and Life,” the 
speaker went on, after a pause referable 
to his consummate knowledge of men, 
“ has sent His Spirit down to the world, not once, 
merely, or unto one people, but repeatedly, in ages 



sometimes near together, sometimes wide apart, and 
to races diverse, yet in every instance remarkable for 
genius.” 

There was a murmur at this, but he gave it no 
time. 


* Selections printed here are by special permission of the author. Harper Brothers, Publishers. 













GENERAL LEWIS WALLACE. 


191 


“ Ask you now how I could identify the Spirit 
so as to be able to declare to you solemnly, as I 
do in fear of God, that in several repeated appear¬ 
ances of which I speak it was the very same 
Spirit ? How do you know the man you met at set 
of sun yesterday was the man you saluted and had 
salute from this morning ? Well, I tell you the 
Father has given the Spirit features by which it 
may be known—features distinct as those of the 
neighbors nearest you there at your right and left 
hands. Wherever in my reading Holy Books, like 
these, I hear of a man, himself a shining example 
of righteousness, teaching God and the way to 
God ; by those signs I say to my soul: ‘Oh, the 
Spirit, the Spirit! Blessed in the man appointed to 
carry it about!’ ” 

Again the murmur, but again he passed on. 

“The Spirit dwelt in the Holy of Holies set apart 
for it in the Tabernacle; yet no man ever saw it 


here, a thing of sight. The soul is not to be seen ; 
still less is the Spirit of the Most High ; or if one 
did see it, its brightness would kill him. In great 
mercy, therefore, it has come and done its good 
works in the world veiled ; now in one form, now in 
another; at one time, a voice in the air; at another, 
a vision in sleep; at another, a burning bush; at 
another, an angel; at another, a descending dove ”— 

“Bethabara!” shouted a cowled brother, tossing 
both hands up. 

“ Be quiet! ” the Patriarch ordered. 

“ Thus always when its errand was of quick de¬ 
spatch,’’ the Prince continued. “ But if its coming 
were for residence on earth, then its habit has been 
to adopt a man for its outward form, and enter into 
him, and speak by him; such was Moses, such 
Elijah, such were all the Prophets, and such ”—he 
paused, then exclaimed shrilly—“ such w T as Jesus 
Christ! ” 


THE PRAYER OF THE WANDERING JEW* 


(FROM THE “ PRINCE OF INDIA.”) 


OD of Israel—my God ! ” he said, in a tone 
hardly more than speaking to himself. 
“ These about me, my fellow-creatures, 
pray thee in the hope of life, I pray thee in the 
hope of death. I have come up from the sea, and 
the end was not there; now I will go into the Desert 



in search of it. Or if I must live, Lord, give me the 
happiness there is in serving thee. 

“ Thou hast need of instruments of good: let me 
henceforth be one of them, that by working for thy 
honor, I may at last enjoy the peace of the blessed— 
Amen.” 


-+ 0 * 


DEATH OF MONTEZUMA* 

(from “ THE FAIR GOD.”) 


E king turned his pale face and fixed his 
gazing eyes upon the conqueror ; and such 
power was there in the look that the latter 
added, with softening manner, “ What I can do for 
thee I will do. I have always been thy true friend.” 

“ 0 Malinche, I hear you, and your words make 
dying easy,” answered Montezuma, smiling faintly. 

With an effort he sought Cortes’ hand, and looking 
at Acatlan and Tecalco, continued: 

“ Let me intrust these women and their children 
to you and your lord. Of all that which was mine 


but now is yours—lands, people, empire,—enough 
to save them from want and shame were small in¬ 
deed. Promise me; in the hearing of all these, 
promise, Malinche.” 

Taint of anger was there no longer on the soul of 
the great Spaniard. 

“ Rest thee, good king! ” he said, with feeling. 
“ Thy queens and their children shall be my wards. 
In the hearing of all these, I so swear.” 

The listener smiled again; his eyes closed, bis 
hand fell down; and so still was he that they begaa 



* Copyright, Harper & Bros. 






















192 


GENERAL LEWIS WALLACE. 


to think him dead. Suddenly he stirred, and said 
faintly, but distinctly,— 

“ Nearer, uncles, nearer.” The old men bent over 
him, listening. 

“ A message to Guatamozin,—to whom I give my 
last thought, as king. Say to him, that this linger¬ 
ing in death is no fault of his ; the aim was true, but 
the arrow splintered upon leaving the bow. And 
lest the world hold him to account for my blood, hear 


me say, all of you, that I bade him do what 
he did. 

And in sign that I love him, take my sceptre, and 
give it to him—” 

His voice fell away, yet the lips moved; lower the 
accents stooped,— 

“ Tula and the empire go with the sceptre,” he 
murmured, and they were his last words,—his will. 
A wail from the women pronounced him dead. 


— — 

DESCRIPTION OF VIRGIN MARY* 

(FROM “ BEN HUR.”) 


H HE was not more than fifteen. Her form, 
voice and manner belonged to the period 
of transition from girlhood. Her face 
was perfectly oval, her complexion more pale than 
fair. The nose was faultless ; the lips, slightly parted, 
were full and ripe, giving to the lines of the mouth 
warmth, tenderness and trust; the eyes were blue 
and large, and shaded by drooping lids and long 
lashes, and, in harmony with all, a flood of golden 
hair, in the style permitted to Jewish brides, fell un¬ 
confined down her back to the pillion on which she 
sat. The throat and neck had the downy softness 
sometimes seen which leaves the artist in doubt 


whether it is an effect of contour or color. To these 
charms of feature and person were added others more 
indefinable—an air of purity which only the soul can 
impart, and of abstraction natural to such as think 
much of things impalpable. Often, with trembling 
lips, she raised her eyes to heaven, itself not more 
deeply blue ; often she crossed her hands upon her 
breast, as in adoration and prayer; often she raised 
her head like one listening eagerly for a calling 
voice. Now and then, midst his slow utterances, 
Joseph turned to look at her, and, catching the ex¬ 
pression kindling her face as with light, forgot his 
theme, and with bowed head, wondering, plodded on. 


* Copyright, Harper Sc Bros. 










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EDWARD EGGLESTON. 


“THE HOOSIER, SCHOOL-BOY.” 



ERDER says with truth that “ one’s whole life is but the interprets 
tion of the oracles of his childhood,” and those who are familiar with 
the writings of Edward Eggleston see in his pictures of country life 
in the Hoosier State the interpretation and illustration of his own 
life with its peculiar environment in “ the great interior valley ” 
nearly a half-century ago. The writers who have interpreted for us 
and for future generations the life and the characteristic manners which prevailed in 
the days when our country was new and the forests were yielding to give place to 
growing cities and expanding farms have done a rare and peculiar service, and those 
sections which have found expression through the genius and gifts of novelist or 
poet are highly favored above all others. 

Edward Eggleston has always counted it a piece of good-fortune to have been 
born in a small village of Southern Indiana, for he believes that the formative influ¬ 
ences of such an environment, the intimate knowledge of simple human nature, the 
close acquaintance with nature in woods and field and stream, and the sincere and 
earnest tone of the religious atmosphere which he breathed all through his youth, are 
better elements of culture than a city life could have furnished. 

He was born in 1837 in Yevay , Indiana, and his early life was spent amid the 
“ noble scenery ” on the banks of the Ohio River. His father died while he was a 
young boy, and he himself was too delicate to spend much time at school, so that he 
is a shining example of those who move up the inclined plane of self-culture and 
self-improvement. 

As he himself has forcefully said, through his whole life two men have 
struggled within him for the ascendency, the religious devotee and the literary man. 
His early training was “ after the straitest sect of his religion ”—the fervid Metho¬ 
dism of fifty years ago, and he was almost morbidly scrupulous as a boy, not even 
allowing himself to read a novel, though from this early period he always felt in 
himself a future literary career, and the teacher who corrected his compositions 
naively said to him : “I have marked your composition very severely because you 
are destined to become an author.” 

At first the religious element in his nature decidedly held sway and he devoted 
himself to the ministry, mounting a horse and going forth with his saddle-bags as a 
circuit preacher in a circuit of ten preaching places. This was followed by a still 
harder experience in the border country of Minnesota, where in moccasins he 
13 ph. 193 




























194 


EDWARD EGGLESTON. 


tramped from town to town preaching to lumbermen and living on a meagre pit¬ 
tance, eating crackers and cheese, often in broken health and expecting an early 
death. 

But even this earnest life of religious devotion and sacrifice was interspersed with 
attempts at literary work and he wrote a critical essay on “ Beranger and his Songs ’ 
while he was trying to evangelize the red-shirted lumbermen of St. Croix. It was 
in such life and amid such experiences that Eggleston gained his keen knowledge 
of human nature which has been the delight and charm of his books. 

He began his literary career as associate editor of the “Little Corporal” at 
Evanston, Illinois, in 1866, and in 1870 he rose to the position of literary editor of 
the New York “ Independent,” of which he was for a time superintending editor. 
For five years, from 1874 to 1879, he was pastor of the Church of Christian En¬ 
deavor in Brooklyn, but failing health compelled him to retire, and he made his 
home at “Owl’s Nest,” on Lake George, where he has since devoted himself to 
literary work. 

His novels depict the rural life of Southern Indiana, and his own judgment upon 
them is as follows: “I should say that what distinguishes my novels from other 
works of fiction is the prominence which they give to social conditions; that the 
individual characters are here treated to a greater degree than elsewhere as parts of 
a study of a society, as in some sense the logical result of the environment. What¬ 
ever may be the rank assigned to these stories as works of literary art, they will 
always have a certain value as materials for the student of social history.” 

His chief novels and stories are the following: “Mr. Blake’s Walking Stick” 
(Chicago, 1869); “The Hoosier School-master” (New York, 1871);” “End of the 
World” (1872); “The Mystery of Metropolisville” (1873); “The Circuit Bider” 
(1874); “School-master’s Stories for Boys and Girls” (1874); and “The Hoosier 
School-boy” (1883). He has written in connection with his daughter an interest¬ 
ing series of biographical tales of famous American Indians, and during these later 
years of his life he has largely devoted himself to historical work which has had an 
attraction for him all his life. 

In his historical work as in his novels he is especially occupied with the evolu¬ 
tion of society. His interest runs in the line of unfolding the history of life and 
development rather than in giving mere facts of political history. 

His chief works in this department are: “Household History of the United 
States and its People” (New York, 1893); and “The Beginners of a Nation” (New 
York, 1897). 

Though possessed of a weak and ailing body and always on the verge of invalid¬ 
ism, he has done the work of a strong man. He has always preserved his deep and 
earnest religious and moral tone, but he has woven with it a joyous and genuine 
humor which has warmed the hearts of his many readers. 










EDWARD EGGLESTON. 




SPELLING DOWN THE MASTER* 


(from “the hoosier schoolmaster. 

VERY family furnished a candle. There 
were yellow dips and white dips, burning, 
smoking, and flaring. There was laugh¬ 
ing, and talking, and giggling, and simpering, and 
ogling, and flirting, and courting. What a dress 
party is to Fifth Avenue, a spelling-school is to 
Hoopliole County. It is an occasion which is meta¬ 
phorically inscribed with this legend, “ Choose your 
partners.” Spelling is only a blind in Hoophole 
County, as is dancing on Fifth Avenue. But as 
there are some in society who love dancing for its 
own sake, so in Flat Creek district there were those 
who loved spelling for its own sake, and who, smell¬ 
ing the battle from afar, had come to try their skill 
in this tournament, hoping to freshen the laurels they 
had won in their school-days. 

“ I ’low,” said Mr. Means, speaking as the prin¬ 
cipal school trustee, “ I ’low our friend the Square is 
jest the man to boss this ere consarn to-night. Ef 
nobody objects, I’ll appint him. Come, Square, 
don’t be bashful. Walk up to the trough, fodder or 
no fodder, as the man said to his donkey.” 

There was a general giggle at this, and many of 
the young swains took occasion to nudge the girls 
alongside them, ostensibly for the purpose of making 
them see the joke, but really for the pure pleasure 
of nudging. 

The squire came to the front. 

“ Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, shoving up his 
spectacles, and sucking his lips over his white teeth 
to keep them in place, “ladies and gentlemen, young 
men and maidens, raley I’m obleeged to Mr. Means 
fer this horlor,” and the Squire took both hands and 
turned the top of his head round several inches. 
Then he adjusted his spectacles. Whether he was 
obliged to Mr. Means for the honor of being com¬ 
pared to a donkey, was not clear. “ I feel in the 
inmost compartments of my animal spirits a most 
happvfying sense of the success and futility of all my 
endeavors to sarve the people of Flat Creek deestrick, 
and the people of Tomkins township, in my weak way 
and manner.” This burst of eloquence was delivered 
with a constrained air and an apparent sense of 
danger that he, Squire Hawkins, might fall to pieces 
in his weak way and manner, and of the success and 

* Copyright, C 


ORANGE JUDD CO., PUBLISHERS.) 
futility (especially the latter) of all attempts at recon- 
struction. For by this time the ghastly pupil of the 
left eye, which was black, was looking away round to 
the left while the little blue one on the right twinkled 
cheerfully toward the front. The front teeth would 
drop down so that the Squire’s mouth was kept nearly 
closed, and his words whistled through. 

“ I feel as if I could be grandiloquent on this 
interesting occasion,” twisting his scalp round, “ but 
raley I must forego any such exertions. It is spelling 
you want. Spelling is the corner-stone, the grand, 
underlying subterfuge of a good eddication. I put 
the spellin'-book prepared by the great Daniel Web¬ 
ster alongside the Bible. I do raley. The man who 
got up, who compounded this little work of inextri¬ 
cable valoo was a benufactor to the whole human 
race or any other.” Here the spectacles fell off. 
The Squire replaced them in some confusion, gave 
the top of his head another twist, and felt for his 
glass eye, while poor Shocky stared in wonder, and 
Betsy Short rolled from side to side at the point of 
death from the effort to suppress her giggle. Mrs. 
Means and the other old ladies looked the applause 
they could not speak. 

“ I appint Larkin Lanham and Jeems Buchanan 
fer captings,” said the Squire. And the two young 
men thus named took a stick and tossed it from hand 
to hand to decide who should have the “ first chice.” 
One tossed the stick to the other, who held it fast 
just where he happened to catch it. Then the first 
placed his hand above the second, and so the hands 
were alternately changed to the top. The one who 
held the stick last without room for the other to take 
hold had gained the lot. This was tried three times. 
As Larkin held the stick twice out of three times, he 
had the choice. He hesitated a moment. Every¬ 
body looked toward tall Jim Phillips. But Larkin 
was fond of a venture on unknown seas, and so he 
said, “ I take the master,” while a buzz of surprise 
ran round the room, and the captain of the other 
side, as if afraid his opponent would withdraw the 
choice, retorted quickly, and with a little smack of 
exultation and defiance in his voice: “ And / take 
Jeems Phillips.” 

And soon all present, except a few of the old folks, 
*ange Judd Co. 









196 


EDWARD EGGLESTON. 


found themselves ranged in opposing hosts, the poor 
spellers lagging in, with what grace they could at the 
foot of the two divisions. The Squire opened his 
spelling-book and began to give out the words to the 
two captains, who stood up and spelled against each 
other. It was not long before Larkin spelled “ really ” 
with one /, and had to sit down in confusion, while a 
murmur of satisfaction ran through the ranks of the 
opposing forces. His own side bit their lips. The 
slender figure of the young teacher took the place 
of the fallen leader, and the excitement made the 
house very quiet. Ralph dreaded the loss of influ¬ 
ence he would suffer if he should be easily spelled 
down. And at the moment of rising he saw in the 
darkest corner the figure of a well-dressed young man 
sitting in the shadow. It made him tremble. Why 
should his evil genius haunt him? But by a strong 
effort he turned his attention away from Dr. Small, 
and listened carefully to the words which the Squire 
did not pronounce very distinctly, spelling them with 
extreme deliberation. This gave him an air of hesi¬ 
tation which disappointed those on his own side. 
They wanted him to spell with a dashing assurance. 
But he did not begin a word until he had mentally 
felt his way through it. After ten minutes of spell¬ 
ing hard words, Jeems Buchanan, the captain of the 
other side, spelled “atrocious” with an s instead of a 
c, and subsided, his first choice, Jeems Phillips, com¬ 
ing up against the teacher. This brought the excite¬ 
ment to fever-heat. For though Ralph was chosen 
first, it was entirely on trust, and most of the com¬ 
pany were disappointed. The champion who now 
stood up against the school-master was a famous 
speller. 

Jim Phillips was a tall, lank, stoop-shouldered fellow, 
who had never distinguished himself in any other 
pursuit than spelling. Except in this one art of 
spelling he was of no account. He could neither 
catch a ball well nor bat well. He could not throw 
well enough to make his mark in that famous West¬ 
ern game of Bull-pen. He did not succeed well in 
any study but that of Webster’s Elementary. But 
in that—to use the usual Flat Creek locution—he 
was “a hoss.” The genius for spelling is in some 
people a sixth sense, a matter of intuition. Some 
spellers are born and not made, and their facility 
reminds one of the mathematical prodigies that crop 


out every now and then to bewilder the world. Bud 
Means, foreseeing that Ralph would be pitted against 
Jim Phillips, had warned his friend that Jim could 
spell “ like thunder and lightning,” and that it “ took 
a powerful smart speller ” to beat him, lor he knew 
“ a heap of spelling-book.” To have “ spelled down 
the master” is next thing to having whipped the 
biggest bully in Hoophole County, and Jim had 
“ spelled down ” the last three masters. He divided 
the hero-worship of the district with Bud Means. 

For half an hour the Squire gave out hard words. 
What a blessed thing our crooked orthography is. 
Without it there could be no spelling-schools. As 
Ralph discovered his opponent’s mettle he became 
more and more cautious. He was now satisfied that 
Jim would eventually beat him. The fellow evidently 
knew more about the spelling-book than old Noah 
Webster himself. As he stood there, with his dull 
face and long sharp nose, his hands behind his back, 
and his voice spelling infallibly, it seemed to Hart- 
sook that his superiority must lie in his nose. Ralph’s 
cautiousness answered a double purpose ; it enabled 
him to tread surely, and it was mistaken by Jim for 
weakness. Phillips was now confident that he should 
carry off the scalp of the fourth school-master before 
the evening was over. He spelled eagerly, confidently, 
brilliantly. Stoop-shouldered as he was, he began to 
straighten up. In the minds of all the company the 
odds were in his favor. He saw this, and became 
ambitious to distinguish himself by spelling without 
giving the matter any thought. 

Ralph always believed that he would have been 
speedily defeated by Phillips had it not been for two 
thoughts which braced him. The sinister shadow of 
young Dr. Small sitting in the dark corner by the 
water-bucket nerved him. A victory over Phillips 
was a defeat to one who wished only ill to the young 
school-master. The other thought that kept his 
pluck alive was the recollection of Bull. He ap¬ 
proached a word as Bull approached the raccoon. He 
did not take hold until he was sure of his game. 
When he took hold, it was with a quiet assurance of 
success. As Ralph spelled in this dogged way for 
half an hour the hardest words the Squire could find, 
the excitement steadily rose in all parts of the house, 
and Ralph’s friends even ventured to whisper that 
“maybe Jim had cotched his match after all!” 






EDWARD EGGLESTON, 


197 


But Phillips never doubted of his success. 

“ Theodolite,” said the Squire. 

“ T-h-e, the, o-d, od, theod, o, theodo, 1-y-t-e, 
theodolite,” spelled the champion. 

“ Next,” said the Squire, nearly losing his teeth in 
his excitement. 

Ralph spelled the word slowly and correctly, and 
the conquered champion sat down in confusion. The 
excitement was so great for some minutes that the 
spelling was suspended. Everybody in the house 
had shown sympathy with one or other of the com¬ 
batants, except the silent shadow in the corner. It 
had not moved during the contest, and did not show 
any interest now in the result. 

“ Gewhilliky crickets ! Thunder and lightning ! 
Licked him all to smash!” said Bud, rubbing his 
hands on his knees. “ That beats my time all 
holler!” 

And Betsy Short giggled until her tuck-comb fell 
out, though she was on the defeated side. 

Shocky got up and danced with pleasure. 

But one suffocating look from the aqueous eyes 
of Mirandy destroyed the last spark of Ralph’s 
pleasure in his triumph, and sent that awful below- 
zero feeling all through him. 

“ He’s powerful smart is the master,” said old Jack 
to Mr. Pete Jones. “ He’ll beat the whole kit and 
tuck of ’em afore he's through. I know’d he was 
smart. That’s the reason I tuck him,” proceeded 
Mr. Means. 

“ Yaas, but he don’t lick enough. Not nigh,” 
answered Pete Jones. “ No lickin’, no lamin’, says I.” 

It was now not so hard. The other spellers on 
the opposite side went down quickly under the hard 
words which the Squire gave out. The master had 
mowed down all but a few, his opponents had given 
up the battle, and all had lost their keen interest in 
a contest to which there could be but one conclusion, 
for there were only the poor spellers left. But Ralph 
Hartsook ran against a stump where he was least ex¬ 
pecting it. It was the Squire’s custom, when one of 
the smaller scholars or poorer spellers rose to spell 
against the master, to give out eight or ten easy words 
that they might have some breathing spell before being 
slaughtered, and then to give a poser or two which soon 
settled them. He let them run a little, as a cat does 
a doomed mouse. There was now but one person 


left on the opposite side, and as she rose in her 
blue calico dress, Ralph recognized Hannah, the 
bound girl at old Jack Means’s. She had not 
attended school in the district, and had never 
spelled in spelling-school before, and was chosen 
last as an uncertain quantity. The Squire began 
with easy words of two syllables, from that page of 
Webster, so well-known to all who ever thumbed 
it, as “ Baker,” from the word that stands at the 
top of the page. She spelled these words in an 
absent and uninterested manner. As everybody 
knew that she would have to go down as soon as 
this preliminary skirmishing was over, everybody 
began to get ready to go home, and already there was 
a buzz of preparation. Young men were timidly 
asking girls if they could “ see them safe home,” 
which is the approved formula, and were trembling 
in mortal fear of “ the mitten.” Presently the 
Squire, thinking it time to close the contest, pulled 
his scalp forward, adjusted his glass eye, which had 
been examining his nose long enough, and turned 
over the leaves of the book to the great words at 
the place known to spellers as “ Incomprehensibility,” 
and began to give out those “ words of eight syllables 
with the accent on the sixth.” Listless scholars now 
turned round, and ceased to whisper, in order to be 
in the master’s final triumph. But to their surprise, 
“ ole Miss Meanses’ white nigger,” as some of them 
called her, in allusion to her slavish life, spelled these 
great words with as perfect ease as the master. Still, 
not doubting the result, the Squire turned from place 
to place and selected all the hard words he could find. 
The school became utterly quiet, the excitement was 
too great for the ordinary buzz. Would “ Meanses’ 
Ilanner” beat the master? Beat the master that 
had laid out Jim Phillips? Everybody’s sympathy 
was now turned to Hannah. Ralph noticed that even 
Shocky had deserted him, and that his face grew 
brilliant every time Hannah spelled a word. In fact, 
Ralph deserted himself. If he had not felt that 
a victory given would insult her, he would have 
missed intentionally. 

“ Daguerreotype,” sniffled the Squire. It was 
Ralph’s turn. 

“ D-a-u, dau-” 

“ Next.” 

And Hannah spelled it right. 







THOMAS NELSON PAGE. 


AUTHOR OF “ IN OLE VIRGINIA.” 

old adage declares it “ an ill wind that blows nobody good; ” and 
certainly the world may take whatever consolation it can find out of 
the fact that the long and bloody war between the North and South 
has at least afforded the opportunity for certain literary men and 
women to rise upon the ruins which it wrought, and win fame to 
themselves as well as put money in their purses by embalming in 
literature the story of times and social conditions that now exist only in the history 
of the past. 

Thomas Nelson Page was born in Oakland, Hanover county, Virginia, on the 
twenty-third day of April, 1853, consequently, he was only eight years old when 
Fort Sumter was fired upon, and, during the imaginative period of the next few 
years, he lived in proximity to the battle fields of the most fiercely contested strug¬ 
gles of the war. His earliest recollections were of the happiest phases of life on 
the old slave plantations. That he thoroughly understands the bright side of such 
a life, as well as the Negro character and dialect, is abundantly established by the 
charming books which he has given to the world. 

His childhood was passed on the estate which was a part of the original grant of 
his maternal ancestor, General Thomas Nelson, a signer of the Declaration of’ Inde¬ 
pendence, for whom he was named. His early education was received in the neigh¬ 
borhood “subscription” schools (there were no free public schools in the South at 
that time), and at the hand of a gentle old aunt of whom Mr. Page tells in one of 
his stories. The war interfered with his regular studies but filled his mind with a 
knowledge schools cannot give, and, as stated above, it was out of this knowledge 
that his stories have grown. After the war, young Page entered the Washington 
and Lee University and later studied law, taking his degree in this branch from the 
University of Virginia, in 1874, and after graduating, practiced his profession in 
Richmond, Virginia, until 1884, when his first story of Virginia life “Marse Chan,” 
a tale of the Civil War, was printed in the “Century Magazine.” He had previously 
written dialectic poetry, but the above story was his first decided success, and at¬ 
tracted such wide attention that he forsook law for literature. In 1887, a volume of 
his stories was brought out under the title “In Ole Virginia,” which was followed in 
1888 by “Befo’ de War; Echoes in Negro Dialect,” which was written in co- 
laboration with Mr. A. C. Gordon. The next year a story for boys entitled, “Two 
Little Confederates,” appeared in the “St. Nicholas Magazine,” and was afterward 

198 
























THOMAS NELSON PAGE. 


199 


published in book form. A companion volume to this is “ Among the Camps or 
1 oung People s Stories of the War.” 

Mi. Edge l ias been a frequent contributor to the current magazines for many 
years, and has also lectured extensively throughout the country. In 1897 he went 
abroad for a tour of England and the Continent of Europe. It is announced that 
on his return lie will issue a new novel which we understand, he has been enoao-ed 

upon for some time and expects to make the most pretentious work of his life up to 
this date. 1 


-•o*- 


OLD SUE* 

(FROM “ PASTIME STORIES.”) 


UST on the other side of Ninth Street, out¬ 
side of my office window, was the stand 
of Old Sue, the “ tug-mule ” that pulled 
the green car around the curve from Main Street to 
Ninth and up the hill to Broad. Between her and 
the young bow-legged negro that hitched her on, 
drove her up, and brought her back down the hill for 
the next car, there always existed a peculiar friend¬ 
ship. He used to hold long conversations w T ith her, 
generally upbraiding her in that complaining tone 
with opprobrious terms which the negroes employ, 
which she used to take meekly. At times he petted 
her with his arm around her neck, or teased her, 
punching her in the ribs and walking about around her 
quarters, ostentatiously disregaYdful of her switching 
stump of a tail, backed ears, and uplifted foot, 
and threatening her with all sorts of direful punish¬ 
ment if she “ jis dvarred to tetch ” him. 

“ Kick me—heah, kick me ; I jis dyah you to lay 
you’ foot ’g’inst me,” he would say, standing defiantly 
against her as she appeared about to let fly at him. 
Then he would seize her with a guffaw. Or at 
times, coming down the hill, he would “ hall off” and 
hit her, and “ take out ” with her at his heels her 
long furry ears backed, and her mouth wide open as 
if she would tear him to pieces ; and just as she 
nearly caught him he would come to a stand and 
wheel around, and she would stop dead, and then 
walk on by him as sedately as if she were in a har¬ 
row. In all the years of their association she never 
failed him ; and she never failed to fling herself on 
the collar, rounding the sharp curve at Ninth, and to 
get the car up the difficult turn. 

Last fall, however, the road passed into new hands, 


and the management changed the old mules on the 
line, and put on a lot of new and green horses. It 
happened to be a dreary, rainy day in November 
when the first new team was put in. They came 
along about three o’clock. Old Sue had been stand¬ 
ing out in the pouring rain all day with her head 
bowed, and her stubby tail tucked in, and her black 
back dripping. She had never failed nor faltered. 
The tug-boy in an old rubber suit and battered tar- 
pauling hat, had been out also, his coat shining with 
the wet. He and old Sue appeared to mind it as¬ 
tonishingly little. The gutters y r ere running brim¬ 
ming full, and the cobble-stones were wet and slippery. 
The street cars were crowded inside and out, the 
wretched people on the platforms vainly trying to 
shield themselves with umbrellas held sideways. It 
was late in the afternoon when I first observed that 
there was trouble at the corner. I thought at first 
that there was an accident, but soon found that it 
was due to a pair of new, balking horses in a car. 
Old Sue was hitched to the tug, and was doing her 
part faithfully ; finally she threw her weight on the 
collar, and by sheer strength bodily dragged the car, 
horses and all, around the curve and on up the straight 
track, until the horses, finding themselves moving, 
went off with a rush, I saw the tug-boy shake his 
head with pride, and heard him give a whoop of 
triumph. The next car went up all right; but the 
next had a new team, and the same thing occurred. 
The streets were like glass; the new horses got to 
slipping and balking, and old Sue had to drag them 
up as she did before. From this time it went from 
bad to worse: the rain changed to sleet, and the 
curve at Ninth became a stalling-place for every car. 



* Copyr’jjht, Harper & Frog, 
















200 


THOMAS NELSON PAGE. 


Finally, just at dark, there was a block there, and 
the cars piled up. I intended to have taken a car 
on iny way home, but finding it stalled, I stepped 
into my friend Polk Miller’s drug-store, just on the 
corner, to get a cigar and to keep warm. I could see 
through the blurred glass of the door the commotion 
going on just outside, and could hear the shouts of 
the driver and of the tug-boy mingled with the clatter 
of horses’ feet as they reared and jumped, and the 
cracks of the tug-boy’s whip as he called to Sue, 
“ Git up, Sue, git up, Sue.” Presently, I heard a 
shout, and then the tones changed, and things got 
quiet. 

A minute afterwards the door slowly opened, and 
the tug-boy came in limping, his old hat pushed back 
on his head, and one leg of his wet trousers rolled up 
to his knee, showing about four inches of black, 
ashy skin, which he leaned over and rubbed as he 
walked. His wet face wore a scowl, half pain, half 
anger. “Mist’ Miller, kin I use you’ telephone ? ” 
he asked, surlily. (The company had the privilege 
of using it by courtesy.) 

“ Yes; there ’tis.” 

He limped up, and still rubbing his leg with one 
hand, took the ’phone off the hook with the other 
and put it to his ear. 

“Hello, central—hello! Please gimme fo’ hund’ 
an’ sebenty-three on three sixt’-fo’—fo’ hund’ an’ 
sebent’-three on three sixt’-fo’. 


“ Hello ! Suh ? Yas, suh; fo’ hund’ an’ sebent’- 
three on three sixt’-fo’. Street-car stables on three 
sixt’-fo’. Hello! Hello! Hello! Hat you, street¬ 
car stables? Hello! Yas. AY’ho dat? Oh! Hat 
you, Mist’ Mellerdin ? Yas, suh; yes, suh; Jim; 
Jim ; dis Jim. G-i-m, Jim. Yas, suh : whar drive 
Ole Sue, in Mist’ Polk Miller’ drug-sto’—. Yas, 
suh. ‘ Matter ’ ?—Ole Sue—she done tu’n fool; 
done gone ’stracted. I can’t do nuttin’ ’tall wid her. 
She ain’ got no sense. She oon pull a poun’. Suh? 
Yas, suh. Nor, suh. Yas, suh. Nor, suh ; I done 
try ev’ything. I done beg her, done cuss her, done 
whup her mos’ to death. She ain’ got no reason- 
rnent. She oon do nuttin’. She done haul off, an’ 
leetle mo’ knock my brains out; she done kick me 
right ’pon meh laig—’pon my right laig.” (He 
stooped over and rubbed it again at the reflection.) 
“ Hone bark it all up. Suh ? Yas, suh. Tell nine 
o’clock ? Yas, suh ; reckon so; ’ll try it leetle longer. 
Yas, suh ; yas, suh. Good-night—good-bye!” 

He hung the ’phone back on the hook, stooped and 
rolled down the leg of his breeches. “ Thankee, 
Mist’ Miller! Good-night.” 

He walked to the door, and opened it. As he 
passed slowly out, without turning his head, he said, 
as if to himself, but to be heard by us, “I wish I 
had a hundred an’ twenty-five dollars. I boun’ I’d 
buy dat durned ole mule, an’ cut her dog-goned 
th’oat.” 





EDWARD PAYSON ROE. 


AUTHOR OF “ BARRIERS BURNED AWAY.” 


. ROE is not considered as one of the strongest of American novel¬ 
ists ; but that he was one of the most popular among the masses of 
the people, from 1875 to the time of his death, goes without saying. 
His novels were of a religious character, and while they were doubt¬ 
less lacking in the higher arts of the fictionist, he invariably told 
an interesting story and pointed a healthy moral. “Barriers Burned 
Away ” is, perhaps, his best novel, and it has been declared by certain critics to be 
at once one of the most vivid portrayals and correct pictures of the great Chicago 
fire that occurred in 1871 which has up to this time been written . 

Edward Payson Roe was born at New Windsor, New York, in 1838, and died, 
when fifty years of age, at Cornwall, the same State, in 1888. He was being educated 
at Williams College, but had to leave before graduating owing to an affection of the 
eyes. In consequence of his literary work, however, the college in after years gave 
him the degree of A. B. In 1862, he volunteered his services in the army and 
served as chaplain throughout the Civil War. From 1865 to 1874 he was pastor 
of the Presbyterian Church at Highland Falls, New York. In 1874 he resigned 
his pastorate, and, to the time of his death, gave himself to literature and to the 
cultivation of a small fruit farm. 

Other works of this author, after “ Barriers Burned Away,” are “ Play and Profit 
in my Garden ” (1873); “ What Can She Do ? ” (1873); “ Opening a Chestnut Burr ” 
(1874); “From Jest to Earnest” (1875); “ Near to Nature’s Heart” (1876); 
“A Knight of the Nineteenth Century” (1877); “A Face Illumined” (1878); 
“A Day of Fate” (1880); “Success with Small Fruits” (1880); “Without a 
Home” (1880); “His Sombre Rivals” (1883); “A Young Girl’s Wooing” (1884); 
“Nature’s Serial Story ” (1884); “ An Original Belle ” (1885); “ Driven Back to 
Eden” (1885); “He Fell in Love with His Wife” (1886); “The Earth 
Trembled” (1887) ; “Miss Lou” (1888); “The Home Acre” (1889) and “Taken 
Alive ” (1889), the two last mentioned being published after the death of the author. 









































202 


EDWARD PAYSON ROE. 


CHRISTINE, AWAKE FOR YOUR LIFE!* 



OR a block or more Dennis was passively 
borne along by the rushing mob. Sud¬ 
denly a voice seemed to shout almost in 
his ear, “ The north side is burning !” and he started 
as from a dream. The thought of Christine flashed 
upon him, perishing, perhaps, in the flames. He 
remembered that now she had no protector, and that 
he for the moment had forgotten her ; though in 
truth he had never imagined that she could be im¬ 
periled by the burning of the north side. 

In an agony of fear and anxiety he put forth 
every effort of which he was capable, and tore 
through the crowd as if mad. There was no way of 
getting across the river now save by the La Salle 
street tunnel. Into this dark passage he plunged with 
multitudes of others. It was indeed as near Pan¬ 
demonium as any earthly condition could be. Driven 
forward by the swiftly pursuing flames, hemmed in 
on every side, a shrieking, frenzied, terror-stricken 
throng rushed into the black cavern. Every moral 
grade was represented there. Those who led 
abandoned lives were plainly recognizable, their guilty 
consciences finding expression in their livid faces. 
These jostled the refined and delicafe lady, who, in 
the awful democracy of the hour, brushed against 
thief and harlot. Little children wailed for their 
lost parents, and many were trampled underfoot. 
Parents cried for their children, women shrieked for 
their husbands, some praying, many cursing with 
oaths as hot as the flames that crackled near. 
Multitudes were in no other costumes than those in 
which they had sprung from their beds. Altogether it 
was a strange, incongruous, writhing mass of human¬ 
ity, such as the world had never looked upon, pouring 
into what might seem, in its horrors, the mouth of hell. 

As Dennis entered the utter darkness, a confused 
roar smote his ear that might have appalled the 
stoutest heart, but he was now oblivious to every¬ 
thing save Christine’s danger. With set teeth he 
put his shoulder against the living mass and pushed 
with the strongest till he emerged into the glare of 
the north side. Here, escaping somewhat from the 
throng, he made his way rapidly to the Ludolph 
mansion, which to his joy he found was still consid¬ 
erably to the windward of the fire. But he saw 


that from the southwest another line of flame was 
bearing down upon it. 

The front door was locked, and the house utterly 
dark. He rang the bell furiously, but there was no 
response. He walked around under the window and 
shouted, but the place remained as dark and silent'as 
a tomb. He pounded on the door, but its massive 
thickness scarcely admitted of a reverberation. 

“ They must have escaped,” he said ; “ but merciful 
heaven ! there must be no uncertainty in this case. 
What shall I do?” 

The windows of the lower story were all strongly 
guarded and hopeless, but one opening on the balcony 
of Christine’s studio seemed practicable, if it could 
be reached. A half-grown elm swayed its graceful 
branches over the balcony, and Dennis knew the 
tough and fibrous nature of this 'tree. In the New 
England woods of his early home he had learned to 
climb for nuts like a squirrel, and so with no great 
difficulty he mounted the trunk and dropped from an 
overhanging branch to the point he sought. The 
window was down at the top, but the lower sash was 
fastened. He could see the catch by the light of 
the fire. He broke the pane of glass nearest it, 
hoping that the crash might awaken Christine, if she 
were still there. But, after the clatter died away, 
there was no sound. He then noisily raised the sash 
and stepped in. . . . 

There was no time for sentiment. He called 
loudly: “ Miss Ludolph, awake ! awake! for your life! ” 

There was no answer. “ She must be gone,” he 
said. The front room, facing toward the west, he 
knew to be her sleeping-apartment. Going through 
the passage, he knocked loudly, and called again ; 
but in the silence that followed he heard his own 
watch tick, and his heart beat. He pushed the door 
open with the feeling of one profaning a shrine, and 
looked timidly in. . . . 

She lay with her face toward him. Her hair of 
gold, unconfined, streamed over the pillow ; one fair, 
round arm, from which her night-robe had slipped 
back, was clasped around her head, and a flickering 
ray of light, finding access at the window, played 
upon her face and neck with the strangest and most 
weird effect. 


* Copyright, Dodd, Mead & Co, 









EDWARD PAYSON ROE. 


203 


So deep was her slumber that she seemed dead, 
and Dennis, in his overwrought state, thought she 
was. lor a moment his heart stood still, and his 
tongue was paralyzed. A distant explosion aroused 
him. Approaching softly he said, in an awed whis¬ 
per (he seemed powerless to speak louder), “ Miss 
Ludolph !—Christine !” 

But the light of the coming fire played and 
lickered over the still, white face, that never before 
had seemed so strangely beautiful. 

“ Miss Ludolph !—0 Christine, awake !” cried 
Dennis, louder. 

To his wonder and unbounded perplexity, he saw 
the hitherto motionless lips wreathe themselves 
into a lovely smile, but otherwise there was no 
response. . . . 

A louder and nearer explosion, like a warning 
voice, made him wholly desperate, and he roughly 
seized her hand. 

Christine’s blue eyes opened wide with a bewildered 
stare; a look of the wildest terror came into them, 
and she started up and shrieked, “ Father! father!” 

Then, turning toward the as yet unknown invader, 
she cried piteously : “ Oh, spare my life ! Take 
everything; I will give you anything you ask, only 
spare my life!” 

She evidently thought herself addressing a ruthless 
robber. 

Dennis retreated towards the door the moment she 
awakened ; and this somewhat reassured her. 

In the firm, quiet tone that always calms excite¬ 
ment, he replied, “ I only ask you to give me your 
confidence, Miss Ludolph, and to join with me, 
Dennis Fleet, in my effort to save your life.” 

“ Dennis Fleet! Dennis Fleet! save my life ! 0 


ye gods, what does it all mean ?” and she passed her 
hand in bewilderment across her brow, as if to brush 
away the wild fancies of a dream. 

Miss Ludolph, as you love your life, arouse your¬ 
self and escape ! The city is burning !” 

When Dennis returned, he found Christine panting 
helplessly on a chair. 

“ Oh, dress ! dress !” he cried. “ We have not a 
moment to spare.” 

The sparks and cinders were falling about the 
house, a perfect storm of fire. The roof was already 
blazing, and smoke was pouring down the stairs. 

At his suggestion she had at first laid out a heavy 
woolen dress and Scotch plaid shawl. She nervously 
sought to put on the dress, but her trembling fingers 
could not fasten it over her mildly throbbing bosom. 
Dennis saw that in the terrible emergency he must 
act the part of a brother or husband, and, springing 
forward, he assisted her with the dexterity he had 
learned in childhood. 

Just then a blazing piece of roof, borne on the 
wings of the gale, crashed through the window, and 
in a moment the apartment, that had seemed like a 
beautiful casket for a still more exquisite jewel, was 
in flames. 

Hastily wrapping Christine in the blanket shawl, 
he snatched her, crying and wringing her hands, into 
the street. 

Holding his hand she ran two or three blocks 
with all the speed her wild terror prompted ; then 
her strength began to fail, and she pantingly cried 
that she could run no longer. But this rapid rush 
carried them out of immediate peril, and brought 
them into the flying throng pressing their way north¬ 
ward and westward. 










FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. 


(our most cosmopolitan novelist.) 

NDREW LANG has pronounced Marion Crawford “the most 
versatile of modern novelists.” It may also be truly said that 
he is the most cosmopolitan of all our American authors. One feels 
after reading his stories of life and society in India, Italy, England 
and America that the author does not belong any where in particular, 
but is rather a citizen of the world in general. 

He drew from nearly every country of culture for his education, and the result is 
clearly apparent in his voluminous and varied works. He is one of the rare and 
favored few who have stumbled almost by accident upon fame and who have 
increased their early fame by later labors. 

Marion Crawford was born in Italy in 1854. His father was a native of Ireland, 
a sculptor of repute, and his mother was an American, a sister of Julia Ward Howe. 
His father died when he was three years old, and he was put with relatives on a farm 
in Bordentown, N. J., where he had a French governess. At a suitable age he was 
sent to St. Paul’s School in New Hampshire, and later he studied with a country 
clergyman in England. He entered Trinity College, Cambridge, where he showed 
an aptitude for mathematics. 

After studying in the Universities of Heidelberg. Carlesruhe and Rome, he went 
to India to make a thorough study of Sanscrit. Here his funds gave out and left 
him nearly stranded with no prospects of improvement. 

Just as he was on the point of joining the Anglo-Indian army, he was offered 
the position of editor on the “ Allahabad Herald,” in an unhealthy town a thousand 
miles from Bombay. The work was extremely difficult and absorbing for one who 
had never had previous connection with a newspaper, requiring sixteen hours of 
daily work in a climate of excessive heat. 

After resigning this position he returned to Italy and took passage on a “tramp” 
steamer for America. He was wrecked, after a six peeks’ voyage, and thrown on 
the coast of Bermuda. With these varied experiences he had stored up in a fertile 
memory material for his numerous novels. It was his first intention to continue his 
Sanscrit studies at Harvard, but a circumstance of the simplest nature revealed to 
him and to the world his remarkable powers as a story-teller. 

Fie has himself told how he came to write “ Mr. Isaacs,” his first novel. 

“ On May 5, 1882, Uncle Sam (Samuel Ward) asked me to dine with him at the 

204 




























FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. 


205 


New York Club, which was then in the building on Madison Square now called the 
Madison Square bank building. We had dined rather early and were sitting in 
the smoking-room, while it was still light. As was natural we began to exchange 
stories while smoking, and I told him with a good deal of detail my recollections of 
an interesting man whom I had met in Sinila. When I finished he said to me, 

‘ That is a good two-part magazine story, and you must write it out immediately. 7 
He took me round to his apartments, and that night I began to write the story of 
‘ Mr. Isaacs.’ I kept at it from day to day, getting more and more interested in 
the work as I proceeded. I was so amused with the writing of it that it occurred 
to me that I might as well make Mr. Isaacs fall in love with an English girl, and 
then I kept on writing to see what would happen. By and by I remembered a 
mysterious Buddhist whom I had once met, so I introduced him to still further 
complicate matters.” 

He was in Canada working on “Dr. Claudius” when “Mr. Isaacs” was issued by 
the publisher. When he reached Boston on his return lie found the news-stands 
covered with posters announcing the famous story of “Mr. Isaacs,” and he himself 
was “interviewed,” and solicited by magazine publishers to give them a new story at 
once. “ Dr. Claudius,” was soon ready and though less romantic found a host of 
readers. His constructive powers increased as he devoted himself to his art and 
books came from his pen in rapid succession. In 1883 lie went to Italy and in the 
following year he married the daughter of General Berdan and established himself 
in a lovely villa at Sorrento where he has since lived, writing either in his villa or 
on board his yacht. 

His third book, a tragic tale of Roman society, is called “To Leeward.” His 
most popular novels is the trilogy, describing the fortunes of a noble Italian family, 
woven in with the history of Modern Rome, from 1865 to 1887. They are in their 
order “Saracinesca,” “Sant’ Ilario ” and “Don Orsino.” This historical trilogy 
depicts with much power the last struggle of the papacy for temporal power. 

In 1885 he issued “Zoroaster,” a story of ancient Persia, with King Darius and 
the prophet Daniel for characters. 

“Marzio’s Crucifix” (1887) was written in ten days. Marion Crawford had 
studied silver carving with a skilful workman and the idea suggested itself to him 
to write a story of an atheist who should put his life and soul into the carving of a 


crucifix. 

“The Lonely Parish ” was written in twenty-four days. The author had promised 
a novel at a certain date and the imperious publisher held him to his promise. He 
had studied with a clergyman in the little English village of Hatfield Regis, and 
to make his story he simply lifted that little village bodily out of his memory and 
put it into his novel, even to the extent of certain real names and localities. His 
other chief works are: “Witch of Prague” (1892), “Greifenstein,” “Paul 
Patoff” (1887), “ The Three Fates,” “Katherine Lauterdale,” “The Ralstones,” and 

“Pietro Ghisleri.” 


206 


FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. 




HORACE BELLINGHAM* 


(FROM “ DR. CLAUDIUS.”) 


Y, but he was a sight to do good to the 
souls of the hungry and thirsty, and of 
the poor and in misery ! 

There are some people who turn gray, but who do 
not grow hoary, whose faces are furrowed but not 
wrinkled, whose hearts are sore wounded in many 
places, but are not dead. There is a youth that bids 
defiance to age, and there is a kindness which laughs 



at the world’s rough usage. These are they who 
have returned good for evil, not having learned it as 
a lesson of righteousness, but because they have no 
evil in them to return upon others. Whom the gods 
love die young because they never grow old. The 
poet, who, at the verge of death, said this, said it of 
and to this very man. 


O* 


IN THE HIMALAYAS* 

(FROM “ MR. ISAACS.”) 


HE lower Himalayas are at first extremely 
disappointing. The scenery is enormous 
but not grand, and at first hardly seems 
large. The lower parts are at first sight a series of 
gently undulating hills and wooded dells; in some 
places it looks as if one might almost hunt the 
country. It is long before you realize that it is all 
on a gigantic scale; that the quick-set hedges are 
belts of rhododendrons of full growth, the water- 
jumps rivers, and the stone walls mountain-ridges ; 
that to hunt a country like that you would have to 
ride a horse at least two hundred feet high. You 
cannot see at first, or even for some time, that the 
gentle-looking hill is a mountain of five or six thou¬ 
sand feet above the level of the Rhigi Kulm in 
Switzerland. Persons who are familiar with the 
aspect of the Rocky Mountains are aware of the 
singular lack of dignity in those enormous elevations. 
They are merely big, without any superior beauty 
until you come to the favored spots of nature’s art, 
where some great contrast throws into appalling relief 
the gulf between the high and the low. It is so in 
the Himalayas. You may travel for hours and days 
amidst vast forests and hills without the slightest 
sensation of pleasure or sense of admiration for the 
scene, till suddenly your path leads you out on to 
the dizzy brink of an awful precipice—a sheer fall, 


so exaggerated in horror that your most stirring 
memories of Mont Blanc, the Jungfrau, and the 
hideous arete of the Pitz Bernina, sink into vague 
insignificance. The gulf that divides you from the 
distant mountain seems like a huge bite taken bodily 
out of the world by some voracious god ; far away 
rise snow-peaks such as were not dreamt of in your 
Swiss tour; the bottomless valley at your feet is 
misty and gloomy with blackness, streaked with mist, 
while the peaks above shoot gladly to the sun and 
catch his broadside rays like majestic white standards. 
Between you, as you stand leaning cautiously against 
the hill beliind you, and the wonderful background 
far away in front, floats a strange vision, scarcely 
moving, but yet not still. A great golden shield sails 
steadily in vast circles, sending back the sunlight in 
every tint of burnished glow. The golden eagle of 
the Himalayas hangs in mid-air, a sheet of polished 
metal to the eye, pausing sometimes in the Adi blaze 
of reflection, as ages ago the sun and the moon stood 
still in the valley of the Ajalon ; too magnificent for 
description, as he is too dazzling to look at. The 
whole scene, if no greater name can be given to it, 
is on a scale so Titanic in its massive length and 
breadth and depth, that you stand utterly trembling 
and weak and foolish as you look for the first time. 
You have never seen such masses of the world before. 



* Copyright, MacMillan <& Co 





















* 

* 

* 



FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON. 



ERHAPS among tlie writers of lighter fiction in modern times, wha 
have delighted the multitudes from the realms of childhood to almosr 
every walk of life, few authors have been more prolific and generally 
popular than the illustrator of “Vanity Fair” and the author of 
“The Lady or the Tiger.” 

Frank Stockton (for with the masses he is plain “Frank”) was 
born in Philadelphia, Pa., April 5, 1834. He had the benefit of only such educa¬ 
tional training as the public schools and the Central High School of that city 
afforded. Originally, his ambition was to be an engraver, and he devoted a number 
of years to that calling,—engraving and designing on wood for the comic paper 
published in New York City, before the war, under the title of “ Vanity Fair.” 
He also made pictures for other illustrated periodicals; and at the same time he also 
did literary and journalistic work, his first connection being with the Philadelphia 
“ Post.” In 1872 he abandoned his engraving altogether to accept an editorial 
position on the New York “ Hearthstone,” and later he joined the staff of “ Scribner’s 
Monthly,” which has since been converted into the “ Century Magazine.” He was 
also made assistant editor of “ St. Nicholas Magazine,” when it was established in 
1873, in connection with Mary Mapes Hodge, the famous child writer. In 1880 
Mr. Stockton resigned his editorial position to devote himself to purely literary 
work. Since that time he has been before the world as a contributor to magazines 
on special topics and as a writer of books. 

Few authors have been more industrious than Frank Stockton. During the last 
thirty years his fertile imagination and busy pen have contributed at least one new 
book almost every year, frequently two volumes and sometimes three coming out in 
the course of twelve months. His first published volume was a collection of stories 
for children issued in 1869 under the title of “ Ting-a-Ling Stories.” Then came 
“ Round About Rambles ;” “ What Might Have Been Expected ;” “ Tales Out of 
School ;” “A Jolly Fellowship;” “The Floating Prince;” “The Story of Viteau;” 
and “ Personally Conducted.” The above are all for young people and were issued 
between 1869 and 1889. Many now grown-up men and women look back with 
pleasant recollections to the happy hours spent with these books when they were 
boys and girls. 

Of the many other volumes of novels and short stories which Mr. Stockton has 
written, the following are, perhaps, the best known: “Rudder Grange” (1879); 
“Lady or the Tiger and Other Stories” (1884); “The Late Mrs. Mull” (1886) *, 

207 


































208 


FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON. 


“The Christmas Wreck and Other Tales ” (1887) ; “The Great War Syndicates 
(1889) ; “ Stories of Three Burglars ” (1890) ; “ The Merry Chanter ” (1890); and 
following this came “ Ardis Cloverden,” and since that several other serial novels 
have been published in the magazines. 

Mr. Stockton has also written some poetry ; but he is pre-eminently a story-teller, 
and it is to his prose writings that he is indebted for the popularity which he enjoys. 
His stories are direct and clear in method and style, while their humor is quiet, 
picturesque and quaint. 

— +o+ -- 


THE END OF A CAREER* 
(from “the merry chanter.’') 



OR two years Doris and I had been en¬ 
gaged to be married. The first of these 
years appeared to us about as long as any 
ordinary year, but the second seemed to stretch itself 
out to the length of fifteen or even eighteen months. 
There had been many delays and disappointments in 
that year. 

We were both young enough to wait and both old 
enough to know we ought to wait; and so we waited. 
But, as we frequently admitted to ourselves, there 
was nothing particularly jolly in this condition of 
things. Every young man should have sufficient 
respect for himself to make him hesitate before en¬ 
tering; into a matrimonial alliance in which he would 
have to be supported by his wife. This would have 
been the case had Dorris and I married within those 
two years. 

I am by profession an analyzer of lava. Having 
been from my boyhood an enthusiastic student of 
mineralogy and geology, I gradually became convinced 
that there was no reason why precious metals and 
precious stones should not be found at spots on the 
earth where nature herself attended to the working 
of her own mines. That is to say, that I can see 
no reason why a volcano should not exist at a spot 
where there were valuable mineral deposits; and 
this being the case, there is no reason why those de¬ 
posits should not be thrown out during eruptions in 
a melted form, or unmelted and mixed with the 
ordinary lava. 

Hoping . to find proof of the correctness of my 
theory, I have analyzed lava from a great many vol¬ 
canoes. I have not been able to afford to travel 
much, but specimens have been sent to me from 


various parts of the world. My attention was par 
ticularly turned to extinct volcanoes; for should I 
find traces of precious deposits in the lava of one of 
these, not only could its old lava beds be worked, but 
by artificial means eruptions of a minor order might 
be produced, and fresher and possibly richer material 
might be thrown out. 

But I had not yet received any specimen of lava 
which encouraged me to begin workings in the vicin¬ 
ity in which it was found. 

My theories met with little favor from other 
scientists, but this did not discourage me. Should 
success come it would be very great. 

Doris had expectations which she sometimes 
thought might reasonably be considered great ones, 
but her actual income was small. She had now no 
immediate family, and for some years lived with 
what she called “ law kin.” She was of a most in¬ 
dependent turn of mind, and being of age could do 
what she pleased with her own whenever it should 
come to her. 

My own income was extremely limited, and what 
my actual necessities allowed me to spare from it 
was devoted to the collection of the specimens on the 
study of which I based the hopes of my fortunes. 

In regard to our future alliance, Doris depended 
mainly upon her expectations, and she did not hesi¬ 
tate, upon occasion, frankly and plainly to tell me 
so. Naturally I objected to such dependence, and 
anxiously looked forward to the day when a little 
lump of lava might open before me a golden future 
which I might honorably ask any woman to share. 
But I do not believe that anything I said upon this 
subject influenced the ideas of Doris. 


*The Century Co., New York. Copyright, Frank R. Stockton. 









Ed wd 




cabled 


■ . 




J : * 1 ' " 



■ v ;- 

• 










-••• *''■ ■■ a 




POPULAR AMERICAN NOVELISTS. 































209 


FBANCIS EICHAED STOCKTON. 


The lady of my love was a handsome girl, quick 
and active of mind and body, nearly always of a 
lively mood, and sometimes decidedly gay. She had 
seen a good deal of the world and the people in it, 
and was “ up, as she put it, in a great many things. 
Moreover, she declared that she had “ a heart for any 
fate. It has sometimes occurred to me that this 
remark would better be deferred until the heart and 
the fate had had an opportunity of becoming ac¬ 
quainted with each other. 

We lived not far apart in a New England town, 
and calling upon her one evening I was surprised to 
find the lively Doris in tears. Her tears were not 
violent, however, and she quickly dried them; and, 
without waiting for any inquiries on my part, she 
informed me of the cause of her trouble. 

“ The Merry Chanter lias come in,” she said. 

“ Come in ! ” I ejaculated. 

“Yes,” she answered, “and that is not the worst 
of it; it has been in a long time. 

I knew all about the Merry Chanter. This was a 
ship. It was her ship which was to come in. Years 
ago this ship had been freighted with the ventures of 
her family, and had sailed for far-off seas. The 
results of those ventures, together with the ship 
itself, now belonged to Doris. They were her ex¬ 
pectations. 

“ But why does this grieve you ? ” I asked. 
“ Why do you say that the coming of the ship, to 
which you have been looking forward with so much 
ardor, is not the worst of it ? ” 

“ Because it isn’t,” she answered. “ The rest is 
a great deal worse. The whole affair is a doleful 
failure. I had a letter to-day from Mooseley, a little 
town on the sea-coast. The Merry Chanter came 
back there three years ago with nothing in it. What 
has become of what it carried out, or what it ought 
to have brought back, nobody seems to know. The 
captain and the crew left it the day after its arrival 
at Mooseley. Why they went away, or what they 
took with them, I have not heard, but a man named 
Asa Cantling writes me that the Merry Chanter has 
been lying at his wharf for three years; that he 
wants to be paid the wharfage that is due him; and 
that for a long time he has been trying to find out to 
whom the ship belongs. At last he has discovered 
that I am the sole owner, and he sends to me his bill 
14 PH. 


for whaifage, stating that he believes it now amounts 
to more than the vessel is worth.” 

“ Absurd ! ” I cried. “ Any vessel must be worth 
more than its wharfage rates for three years. This 
man must be imposing upon you.” 

Doi is did not answer. She was looking drearily 
out of the window at the moonlighted landscape. 
Her heart and her fate had come together, and they 
did not appear to suit each other. 

I sat silent, also, reflecting. I looked at the bill 
which she had handed to me, and then I reflected 
again, gazing out of the window at the moonlighted 
landscape. 

It so happened that I then had on hand a sum of 
money equal to the amount of this bill, which amount 
was made up not only of wharfage rates, but of other 
expenses connected with the long stay of the vessel 
at Asa Cantling’s wharf. 

My little store of money was the result of months 
of savings and a good deal of personal self-denial. 
Every cent of it had its mission in one part of the 
world or another. It was intended solely to carry on 
the work of my life, my battle for fortune. It was to 
show me, in a wider and more thorough manner than 
had ever been possible before, what chance there was 
for my finding the key which should unlock for me 
the treasures in the storehouse of the earth. 

I thought for a few minutes longer, and then I said, 
“ Doris, if you should pay this bill and redeem the 
vessel, what good would you gain ? ” 

She turned quickly towards me. “ I should gain a 
great deal of good,” she said. “ In the first place l 
should be relieved of a soul-chilling debt. Isn’t that 
a good ? And of a debt, too, which grows heavier 
every day. Mr. Cantling writes that it will be diffi¬ 
cult to sell the ship, for it is not the sort that the 
people thereabout want. And if he breaks it up he 
will not get half the amount of his bill. And so 
there it must stay, piling wharfage on wharfage, and 
all sorts of other expenses on those that have gone 
before, until I become the leading woman bankrupt 
of the world.” 

“ But if you paid the money and took the ship,” I 
asked, “ what would you do with it? ” 

“ I know exactly what I would do with it,” said 
Doris. “ It is my inheritance, and I would take that 
ship and make our fortunes. I would begin in a 




210 


FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON. 


humble way just as people begin in other busi¬ 
nesses. I would carry bay, codfish, ice, anything, 
from one port to another. And when I had made 
a little money in this way I would sail away to 
the Orient and come back loaded with rich stuffs and 
spices.” 

“ Did the people who sailed the ship before do 
that?” I asked. 

“ I have not the slightest doubt of it,” she answered; 
“ and they ran away with the proceeds. I do not 
know that you can feel as I do,” she continued. 
“ The Merry Chanter is mine. It is my all. For 
years I have looked forward to what it might bring 
me. It has brought me nothing but a debt, but I 
feel that it can be made to do better than that, and 
my soul is on fire to make it do better.” 

It is not difficult to agree with a girl who looks as 
this one looked and who speaks as this one spoke. 

“ Doris,” I exclaimed, “ if you go into that sort 


of thing I go with you. I will set the Merry Chantef 
free.” 

“ How can you do it?” she cried. 

“ Doris,” I said, “ hear me. Let us be cool and 
practical.” 

“ I think neither of us is very cool,” she said, 
“ and perhaps not very practical. But go on.” 

“ I can pay this bill,” I said, “ but in doing it I 
shall abandon all hope of continuing what I have 
chosen as my life work ; the career which I have 
marked out for myself will be ended. Would you 
advise me to do this ? And if I did it would you 
marry me now with nothing to rely upon but our 
little incomes and what we could make from your 
ship ? Now, do not be hasty. Think seriously, and 
tell me what you would advise me to do.” 

She answered instantly, “ Take me, and the Merry 
Chanter .” 

I gave up my career. 





.9 0 



EDWARD BELLAMY. 


THE AUTHOR OF “ LOOKING BACKWARD.” 



HE most remarkable sensation created by any recent American author 
was perhaps awakened by Edward Bellamy’s famous book, “ Looking 
Backward,” of which over a half million copies have been sold in 
this country alone, and more than as many more on the other side 
of the Atlantic. This book was issued from the press in 1887, and 
maintained for several years an average sale of 100,000 copies 
per year in America alone. In 1897 a demand for sociological literature in Eng¬ 
land called for the printing of a quarter of a million copies in that country within 
the space of a few months, and the work has been translated into the languages of 
almost every civilized country on the earth. Its entire sale throughout the world is 
probably beyond two million copies. 

Mr. Bellamy’s ideal as expressed in this book is pure communism, and the work is 
no doubt the outgrowth of the influence of Emersonian teaching, originally illus¬ 
trated in the Brook Farm experiment. As for Mr. Bellamy’s dream, it can never 
be realized until man’s heart is entirely reformed and the promised millennium 
shall dawn upon the earth; but that such an ideal state is pleasent to contemplate is 
evinced by the great popularity and enormous sale of his book. In order to give 
his theory a touch of human sympathy and to present the matter in a manner every 
way appropriate, Mr. Bellamy causes his hero to go to sleep, at the hands of a 
mesmerist, in an'underground vault and to awake, undecayed, in the perfect vigor 
of youth, one hundred years later, to find if not a new heaven, at least a new earth 
so far as its former social conditions were concerned. Selfishness was all gone 
from man, universal peace and happines reigned over the earth, and all things 
were owned in common. The story is well constructed and well written, and capti¬ 
vates the reader’s imagination. 

Edward Bellamy was born at Chicopee Falls, Mass., on March 26th, 1850. He 
attended Union College, but did not graduate. After studying in Germany he read 
law, and was admitted to the bar in 1871, and afterwards practiced his profession, at 
the same time doing journalistic and literary work. For several years he was as¬ 
sistant editor of the “ Springfield (Mass.) Union ” and an editorial writer for the 
New York “ Evening Post.” He also contributed a number of articles to the 
magazines. His books are “ Six to One, a Nantucket Idyl (18/ /) , Di. Heiden- 
hof’s Process ” (1879); “ Miss Luddington’s Sister : A Romance of Immortality ” 
(1884); “Looking Backward” (1887); “Equality: A Romance of the Future” 

211 





































212 


EDWARD BELLAMY. 


(1897). The last named is a continuation of the same theme as “Looking Back¬ 
ward,” being more argumentative and entering into the recent conditions ot society 
and new phases of politics and industrial questions. It is a larger book and a deeper 
study than its predecessor. The work was issued simultaneously in the United 
States, Great Britain, France, Germany, Switzerland, Belgium, Spain, and other 
countries. 

Mr. Bellamy’s writings have exercised a marked influence in socialistic circles 
throughout America and Europe. There is little doubt that his books will continue 
to be regarded as the most exalted expression of ideal socialism, while the literary 
genius they manifest will, no doubt, keep Bellamy’s name on the honor roll of 
American authorship. 

Edward Bellamy died of consumption on the 22d day of May, 1898, aged forty- 
eight years. Before the completion of his last book, “ Equality,” his health began 
to fail. In August, 1897, by his physicians’ advice, he removed with his family to 
Denver, Colorado ; but, instead of receiving benefit from the change of climate, he 
grew worse, and in January, 1898, recognizing the inevitable, he returned to die 
at his old family homestead, Chicopee Falls, Massachusetts, where he was born and 
had lived his entire life. His devoted wife and several bright children survive him. 


MUSIC IN TIIE YEAR 2000. 


(from “looking backward.) 


By Permission of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 


HEN we arrived home, Dr. Leete had not 
yet returned, and Mrs. Leete was not 
visible. “ Are you fond of music, Mr. 
West?” Edith asked. 

I assured her that it was half of life, according to 
my notion. “ I ought to apologize for inquiring,” 
she said. “ It is not a question we ask one another 
nowadays; hut I have read that in your day, even 
among the cultured class, there were some who did 
not care for music.” 

“You must remember, in excuse,” I said, “that 
we had some rather absurd kinds of music.” 

“ Yes,” she said, “ I know that; I am afraid I 
should not have fancied it all myself. Would you 
like to hear some of ours now, Mr. West?” 

“ Nothing would delight me so much as to listen 
to you,” I said. 

“ To me ! ” she exclaimed, laughing. “ Did you 
think I was going to play or sing to you ? ” 

“ I hoped so, certainly,” I replied. 

Seeing that I was a little abashed, she subdued her 
merriment and explained. “ Of course, we all sing 
nowadays as a matter of course in the training of the 



voice, and some learn to play instruments for their 
private amusement; but the professional music is so 
much grander and more perfect than any performance 
of ours, and so easily commanded when we wish to 
hear it, that we don’t think of calling our singing or 
playing music at all. All the really fine singers and 
players are in the musical service, and the rest of us 
hold our peace for the main part. But would you 
really like to hear some music? ” 

I assured her once more that I would. 

“ Come, then, into the music-room,” she said, and 
I followed her into an apartment finished, without 
hangings, in wood, with a floor of polished wood. 
I was prepared for new devices in musical instru. 
ments, but I saw nothing in the room which by any 
stretch of imagination could be conceived as such. 
It was evident that my puzzled appearance was afford¬ 
ing intense amusement to Edith. 

“ Please look at to-day’s music,” she said, handing 
me a card, “ and tell me what you would prefer. It 
is now five o’clock, you will remember.” 

The card bore the date “ September 12, 2000,” 
and contained the longest programme of music I had 











EDWARD BELLAMY. 


213 


ever seen. It was as various as it was long, includ¬ 
ing a most extraordinary range of vocal and instru¬ 
mental solos, duets, quartettes, and various orches¬ 
tral combinations. I remained bewildered by the 
prodigious list until Edith’s pink finger-tip indicated 
a peculiar section of it, where several selections 
were bracketed, with the words “5 P. M.” against 
them; then I observed that this prodigious pro¬ 
gramme was an all-day one, divided into twenty-four 
sections answering to the hours. There were but a 
few pieces of music in the “ 5 P. M.” section, and I 
indicated an organ piece as my preference. 

“ I am so glad you like the organ,” said she. 

“ I think there is scarcely any music that suits my 
mood oftener.” 

She made me sit down comfortably, and, crossing 
the room, so far as I could see, merely touched one 
or two screws, and at once the room was filled with the 
music of a grand organ anthem; filled, not flooded, 
for, by some means, the volume of melody had been 
perfectly graduated to the size of the department. 
I listened, scarcely breathing, to the close. Such 
music, so perfectly rendered, I had never expected to 
hear. 

“ Grand !” I cried, as the last great wave of the 
sound broke and ebbed away into silence. “ Bach 
must be at the keys of that organ; but where is the 
organ?” 

“ Wait a moment, pis&se,” said Edith ; “ I want 
to have you listen to ffiis waltz before you ask any 
questions, I think it perfectly charming ;” and g 


she spoke the sound of violins filled the room with 
the witchery of a summer night. When this also 
ceased, she said: “ There is nothing in the least 

mysterious about the music, as you seem to imagine. 
It is not made by fairies or genii, but by good, honest, 
and exceedingly clever good hands. We have simply 
carried the idea of labor-saving by co-operation into 
our musical service as into everything else. There 
are a number of music rooms in the city, perfectly 
adapted acoustically to the different sorts of music. 
These halls are connected by telephone with all the 
houses of the city whose people care to pay the small 
fee, and there are none, you may be sure, who do not. 
The corps of musicians attached to each hall is so 
large that, although no individual performer, or group 
of performers, has more than a brief part, each day’s 
programme lasts through the twenty-four hours. 
There are on that card for to-day, as you will see if 
you observe closely, distinct programmes of four of 
these concerts,' each of a different order of music 
from the others, being now simultaneously performed, 
and any one of the four pieces now going on that you 
prefer, you can hear by merely pressing the button 
which will connect your house-wire with the hall 
where it is being rendered. The programmes are 
so co-ordinated that the pieces at any one time simul¬ 
taneously proceeding in the different halls usually 
offer a choice, not only between instrumental and 
vocal, and between different sorts of instruments; 
but also between different motives from grave to gay, 
so that all tastes and moods can be suited.” 






GEORGE W. CABLE. 

THE DEPICTOE OF CREOLE LIFE IN THE SOUTH.” 

is said “ Circumstances make the man and, again, “ Seeming mis¬ 
fortunes are often blessings in disguise. ” Whether this is generally 
true or not, at least in the case of George W. Cable, it has so turned 
out; for it was poverty and necessity that drove him through a 
vicissitude of circumstances which stored his mind with observations 
and facts that enabled him to open a new field of fiction, introducing 
to the outside world a phase of American life hitherto unsuspected save by those who 
have seen it. Ilis rendering of the Creole dialect with its French and Spanish 
variations and mixtures is full of originality. He has depicted the social life of the 
Louisiana lowlands, with its Creole and negro population, so vividly that many 
whose portraits he has drawn have taken serious offence at his books. But it is no 
doubt the truth that hurts , and if so, it should be borne for the sake of history, and 
it is to the credit of Mr. Cable’s 1 integrity as an author that he has not sacrificed the 
truth to please his friends. His books have also been the means of effecting whole¬ 
some changes in the contract system of convict labor in several Southern States. 

George W. Cable was born October 12,1844, in New Orleans, Louisiana. His 
father was a Virginian and his mother a New Englander. They removed to New 
Orleans in 1837. In 1859 Mr. Cable failed in business and died soon after, leaving 
the family in a straightened condition, and the son—then fifteen years of age— 
was compelled to leave school and take a clerkship in a store. This he retained 
until, at the age of nineteen, he volunteered in the service of the Confederate Army, 
joining the Fourth Mississippi Cavalry, and followed the fortunes of the Southern 
cause until it was lost. He was said to have been a gallant soldier, was once 
wounded and narrowly escaped with his life. All his spare moments in camp were 
£’iven to studv. 

After the surrender of General Fee, Cable—a young man of twenty-one—returned 
to New Orleans, penniless, and took employment as an errand boy in a store. 
From there he drifted to Kosciusko, Mississippi, where he studied civil engineering, 
and joined a surveying party on bayous Teche and Atchafalaya—the native heath 
of the Creole—and it was here that his keen observation gathered the material 
which has since done him so much service. 

Cable first began writing to the “ New Orleans Picayune ” under the nom-de - 
plume of “ Drop Shot,” and his articles evinced a power which soon opened the 
way to a regular place on the editorial staff of the paper. This position he retained 

214 

































GEORGE W. CABLE. 


215 








until lie was asked to write a theatrical criticism. Cable bad rigid religious scruples 
-—piety being one of his marked characteristics—always avoided attendance of the 
theatre, and he now refused to go, and resigned his position rather than violate his 


conscience. 

Leaving the editorial rooms of the “ Picayune,” Cable secured a position as 
accountant in a cotton-dealer’s office, which he retained until 1879, when the death 
of his employer threw him out of position. Meantime his sketches of Creole life 
had been appearing in “ Scribner’s Monthly,” and were received with so much 
favor that he determined to leave business and devote his life to literature. Accord- 
mgly, in 1885, he removed North, living at Simsbury, Connecticut, Northampton, 
Massachusetts, and New Tork, which he has since made his headquarters, with a 
continual growing popularity, his books bringing him an ample competency. 

Among the published works ot this author we mention as the most prominent: 
“ Old Creole Days” (1879-1883); “ The Grandissimes ” (1880) ; “ Madame Del- 
phine ” (1881); “ Dr. Sevier” (1883); “ The Creoles of Louisiana ” (1884); “ The 
Silent South ” (1885) ; “ Bonaventure ” (1888) ; “ Strange True Stories of Louis¬ 
iana ” (1889); “The Negro Question ” and “Life of William Gilmore Sims” 
(1890) ; “John March Southerner,” and some later works which the author con¬ 
tinues to add at the rate of one book a year. 

Mr. Cable has also successfully entered the lecture field, in common with other 
modern authors, and never fails to interest Northern audiences with his readings 
or recitations, from his writings or the strange wild melodies and peculiar habits 
of life current among the French speaking negroes of the lower Mississippi. 

-- 


THE DOCTOR* 


(FROM “ DR. SEVIER.”) 


HE main road to wealth in New Orleans has 
long been Carondelet Street. There you 
see the most alert faces; noses—it seems 
to one—with more and sharper edge, and eyes 
smaller and brighter and with less distance between 
them than one notices in other streets. It is there 
that the stock and bond brokers hurry to and fro and 
run together promiscuously—the cunning and the 
simple, the headlong and the wary—at the four clang¬ 
ing strokes of the Stock Exchange gong. There 
rises the tall fagade of the Cotton Exchange. Look¬ 
ing in from the sidewalk as you pass, you see its 
main hall, thronged but decorous, the quiet engine- 
room of the surrounding city’s most far-reaching occu¬ 
pation, and at the hall’s farther end you descry the 
“ Future Room,” and hear the unearthly ramping and 
bellowing of the bulls and bears. Up and down the 
street, on either hand, are the ship-brokers and in¬ 


surers, and in the upper stories foreign consuls among 
a multitude of lawyers and notaries. 

In 1856 this street was just assuming its present 
character. The cotton merchants were making: it 

o 

their favorite place of commercial domicile. The 
open thoroughfare served in lieu of the present ex¬ 
changes ; men made fortunes standing on the curb¬ 
stone, and during bank hours the sidewalks were 
perpetually crowded with cotton factors, buyers, 
brokers, weighers, reweighers, classers, pickers, press- 
ers, and samplers, and the air was laden with cotton 
quotations and prognostications. 

Number 3)4? second floor, front, was the office of 
Dr. Sevier. This office was convenient to everything. 
Immediately under its windows lay the sidewalks 
where congregated the men who, of all in New Or¬ 
leans, could best afford to pay for being sick, and 
least desired to die. Canal Street, the city’s leading 



* Copyright, George W. Cable. 











216 


GEORGE W. CABLE. 


artery, was just below, at the near left-hand corner. 
Beyond it lay the older town, not yet impoverished 
in those days,—the French quarter. A single square 
and a half off at the right, and in plain view from the 
front windows, shone the dazzling white walls of the 
St. Charles Hotel, where the nabobs of the river 
plantations came and dwelt with their fair-handed 
wives in seasons of peculiar anticipation, when it is 
well to be near the highest medical skill. In the 
opposite direction a three minutes’ quick drive around 
the upper corner and down Common Street carried the 
Doctor to his ward in the great Charity Hospital, and 
to the school of medicine, where he filled the chair 
set apart to the holy ailments of maternity. Thus, as 
it were, he laid his left hand on the rich and his right 
on the poor ; and he was not left-handed. 

Not that his usual attitude was one of benediction. 
He stood straight up in his austere pure-mindedness^ 
tall, slender, pale, sharp of voice, keen of glance, stern 
in judgment, aggressive in debate, and fixedly un¬ 
tender everywhere, except—but always except—in 
the sick chamber. His inner heart was all of flesh ; 
but his demands for the rectitude of mankind pointed 
out like the muzzles of cannon through the embra¬ 
sures of his virtues. To demolish evil!—that seemed 
the finest of aims; and even as a physician, that was, 
most likely, his motive until later years and a better 
self-knowledge had taught him that to do good was 
still finer and better. He waged war—against 
malady. To fight; to stifle ; to cut down ; to uproot; 
to overwhelm,—these were his springs of action. 
That their results were good proved that his sentiment 
of benevolence was strong and high ; but it was well- 
nigh shut out of sight by that impatience of evil which 
is very fine and knightly in youngest manhood, but 
which we like to see give way to kindlier moods as 
the earlier heat of the blood begins to pass. 

He changed in later years; this was in 1856. To 
** resist not evil ” seemed to him then only a rather 
feeble sort of knavery. To face it in its nakedness, 
and to inveigh against it in high places and low, 
seemed the consummation of all manliness ; and man¬ 
liness was the key-note of his creed. There was no 
other necessity in this life. 

“ But a man must live,” said one of his kindred, to 
whom, truth to tell, he had refused assistance. 

“No, sir; that is just what he can’t do. A 


man must dje ! So, while he lives, let him be a 

m 

man ! 

How inharmonious a setting, then, for Dr. Sevier, 
was 3^ Carondelet Street! As he drove each morn¬ 
ing, down to that point, he had to pass through long, 
irregular files of fellow-beings thronging either side¬ 
walk—a sadly unchivalric grouping of men whose 
daily and yearly life was subordinated only and en¬ 
tirely to the getting of wealth, and whose every eager 
motion was a repetition of the sinister old maxim that 
“ Time is money.” 

“ It’s a great deal more, sir, it’s life ! ” the Doctor 
always retorted. 

Among these groups, moreover, were many who 
were all too well famed for illegitimate fortune. Many 
occupations connected with the handling of cotton 
yielded big harvests in perquisites. At every jog of 
the Doctor’s horse, men came to view whose riches 
were the outcome of semi-respectable larceny. It 
was a day of reckless operation ; much of the com¬ 
merce that came to New Orleans was simply, as one 
might say, beached in Carondelet Street. The sight 
used to keep the long, thin, keen-eyed doctor in per¬ 
petual indignation. 

“ Look at the wreckers ! ” he would say. 

It was breakfast at eight, indignation at nine, dys - 
pepsia at ten. 

So his setting was not merely inharmonious ; it was 
damaging. He grew sore on the whole matter of 
money-getting. 

“ Yes, I have money. But I don’t go after it. It 
comes to me, because I seek and render service for 
the service’s sake. It will come to anybody else the 
same way ; and why should it come any other way ?” 

He not only had a low regard for the motives of 
most seekers of wealth, he went further, and fell into 
much disbelief of poor men’s needs. For instance, he 
looked upon a man’s inability to find, employment, or 
upon a poor fellow’s run of bad luck, as upon the 
placarded woes of a hurdy-gurdy beggar. 

“ If he wants work he will find it. As for begging, 
it ought to be easier for any true man to starve than 
to beg.” 

The sentiment was ungentle, but it came from the 
bottom of his belief concerning himself, and a longing 
for moral greatness in all men. 

“ However,” he would add, thrusting his hand into 




GEORGE W. CABLE. 


217 


his pocket and bringing out his purse, “ I’ll help any 
man to make himself useful. And the sick—well, 
the sick, as a matter of course. Only I must know 
what I’m doing.” 

Have some of us known want ? To have known 
her—though to love her was impossible—is “ a liberal 
education.” The Doctor was learned; but this ac¬ 
quaintanceship, this education, he had never got. 
Hence his untenderness. Shall we condemn the 
fault? Yes. And the man? We have not the 
face. To be just , which he never knowingly failed to 
be, and at the same time to feel tenderly for the un¬ 
worthy, to deal kindly with the erring—it is a double 
grace that hangs not always in easy reach even of the 
tallest. The Doctor attained to it—but in later years 
meantime, this story—which, I believe, had he ever 
been poor would never have been written. 

He had barely disposed of the three or four waiting 
messengers that arose from their chairs against the 
corridor wall, and was still reading the anxious lines 
left in various handwritings on his slate, when the 
young man entered. He was of fair height, slenderly 
built, with soft auburn hair, a little untrimmed, neat 
dress, and a diffident, yet expectant and courageous? 
face. 

“ Dr. Sevier ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Doctor, my wife is very ill; can I get you to come 
at once and see her? ” 

“ Who is her physician ? ” 

“ I have not called any; but we must have one 
now.” 

“ I don’t know about going at once. This is my 
hour for being in the office. How far is it, and what’s 
the trouble ? ” 

“ We are only three squares away, just here in Cus¬ 
tom-house Street.” The speaker began to add a fal¬ 
tering enumeration of some very grave symptoms. 
The Doctor noticed that he was slightly deaf; he 
uttered his words as though he did not hear them. 

“ Yes,” interrupted Dr. Sevier, speaking half to 
himself as he turned around to a standing case of 


cruel-looking silver-plated things on shelves ; “ that’s 
a small part of the penalty women pay for the doubt¬ 
ful honor of being our mothers. I’ll go. What is 
your number ? But you had better drive back with 
me if you can.” He drew back from the glass case, 
shut the door, and took his hat. 

“ Narcisse ! ” 

On the side of the office nearest the corridor a door 
let into a hall-room that afforded merely good space 
for the furniture needed by a single accountant. The 
Doctor had other interests besides those of his profes¬ 
sion, and, taking them altogether, found it necessary, 
or at least convenient, to employ continuously the ser¬ 
vices of a person to keep his accounts and collect his 
bills. Through the open door the bookkeeper could 
be seen sitting on a high stool at a still higher desk—■ 
a young man of handsome profile and well-knit form. 
At the call of his name he unwound his legs from the 
rounds of the stool and leaped into the Doctor’s pres¬ 
ence with a superlatively highbred bow. 

“ I shall be back in fifteen minutes,” said the Doc¬ 
tor. “ Come, Mr.-,” and went out with the 

stranger. 

Narcisse had intended to speak. He stood a mo¬ 
ment, then lifted the last half inch of a cigarette to 
his lips, took a long, meditative inhalation, turned 
half round on his heel, dashed the remnant with fierce 
emphasis into a spittoon, ejected two long streams of 
smoke from his nostrils, and, extending his fist to¬ 
ward the door by which the Doctor had gone out, 
said:— 

“ All right, ole hoss ! ” No, not that way. It is 
hard to give his pronunciation by letter. In the word 
“ right ” he substituted an a for the r, sounding it 
almost in the same instant with the i, yet distinct from 
it: “ All a-ight, ole hoss ! ” 

Then he walked slowly back to his desk, with that 
feeling of relief which some men find in the renewal 
of a promissory note, twined his legs again among 
those of the stool, and, adding not a word, resumed 
his pen. 











HARRIET BEECHER STOWE, 


AUTHOR OF “ UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 



EW names are more indelibly written upon our country’s history than 
that of Harriet Beecher Stowe. “No book,” says George William 
Curtis, “was ever more a historical event than ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ 

It was the great happiness of Mrs. Stowe not only to have 
written many delightful books, but to have written one book which 
will always be famous not only as the most vivid picture of an ex¬ 




tinct evil system, but as one of the most powerful influences in overthrowing 
it ... If all whom she has charmed and quickened should unite to sing her 
praises, the birds of summer would be outdone.” • 

Harriet Beecher Stowe was the sixth child of Reverend Lyman Beecher,—the 
great head of that great family which has left so deep an impress upon the heart 
and mind of the American people. She was born in Litchfield, Connecticut, in 
June, 1811,—-just two years before her next younger brother, Henry Ward 
Beecher. Her father was pastor of the Congregational Church in Litchfield, and her 
girlhood was passed there and at Hartford, where she attended the excellent semi¬ 
nary kept by her elder sister, Catharine E. Beecher. In 1832 her father ac¬ 
cepted a call to the presidency of Lane Theological Seminary, at Cincinnati, and 
moved thither with his family. Catharine Beecher went also, and established there 
a new school, under the name of the Western Female Institute, in which Harriet 
assisted. 

In 1833 Mrs. Stowe first had the subject of slavery brought to her personal 
notice by taking a trip across the river from Cincinnati into Kentucky in company 
with Miss Hutton, one of the associate teachers in the Western Institute. They 
visited the estate that afterward figured as that of Mr. Shelby, in “Uncle Tom’s 
Cabin,” and here the young authoress first came into personal contact with the 
slaves of the South. 

Among the professors in Lane Seminary was Calvin E. Stowe, whose wife, a dear 
friend of Miss Beecher, died soon after Hr. Beecher’s removal to Cincinnati. In 
1836 Professor Stowe and Harriet Beecher were married. They were admirably 
suited to each other. Professor Stowe was a typical man of letters,—a learned, 
amiable, unpractical philosopher, whose philosophy was like that described by 
Shakespeare as “an excellent horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on a journey.” 
Her practical ability and cheerful, inspiring courage were the unfailing support 
of her husband. 




2118 






























HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 


219 


The years from 1845 to 1850 were a time of severe trial to Mrs. Stowe. She and 
her husband both suffered from ill health, and the family was separated. Professor 
Stowe was struggling with poverty, and endeavoring at the same time to lift the 
Theological Seminary out of financial difficulties. In 1849, while Professor Stowe 
was ill at a water-cure establishment in Vermont, their youngest child died of cholera, 


UNCLE TOM AND HIS BABY. 

“ ‘ Ain’t she a peart 3'oung ’un?’” 


which was then racing in Cincinnati. In 1850 it was decided to remove to Bruns¬ 
wick, Maine, the seat of Bowdoin College, where Professor Stowe was offered a 

position, ear . g memora h] e in the history of the conflict with slavery. It was 

the year of Clay’s compromise measures, as they were called, which sought to satisfy 
the North by the admission of California as a free State, and to propitiate the South 
by the notorious “ Fugitive Slave Law.” The slave power was at its height, and 














220 


HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 


seemed to hold all things under its feet; yet in truth it had entered upon the last 
stage of its existence, and the forces were fast gathering for its final overthrow. 
Professor Cairnes and others said truly, “The Fugitive Slave Law has been to 
the slave power a questionable gain. Among its first fruits was “Uncle Tom’s 
Cabin.” I 

The story was begun as a serial in the National Era , June 5, 1851, and was 
announced to run for about three months, but it was not completed in that paper 
until April 1, 1852. It had been contemplated as a mere magazine tale of perhaps 
a dozen chapters, but once begun it could no more be controlled than the waters of the 
swollen Mississippi, bursting through a crevasse in its levees. The intense interest 
excited by the story, the demands made upon the author for more facts, the un¬ 
measured words of encouragement to keep on in her good work that poured in from 
all sides, and, above all, the ever-growing conviction that she had been intrusted 
with a great and holy mission, compelled her to keep on until the humble tale had 
assumed the proportions of a large volume. Mrs. Stowe repeatedly said, “I could 
not control the story, it wrote itself;” and, “I the author of ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’? 
No, indeed. The Lord himself wrote it, and I was but the humblest of instruments 
in his hand. To him alone should be given all the praise.” 

For the story as a serial the author received $300. In the meantime, however, 
it had attracted the attention of 'Mr. John P. Jewett, a Boston publisher, who 
promptly made overtures for its publication in book form. He offered Mr. and 
Mrs. Stowe a half share in the profits, provided they would share with him the 
expense of publication. This was refused by the Professor, who said he was alto¬ 
gether too poor to assume any such risk; and the agreement finally made was that 
the author should receive a ten per cent, royalty upon all sales. 

In the meantime the fears of the author as to whether or not her book would be 
read were quickly dispelled. Three thousand copies were sold the very first day, 
a second edition was issued the following week, a third a few days later; and within 
a year one hundred and twenty editions, or over three hundred thousand copies, of 
the book had been issued and sold in this country. Almost in a day the poor pro¬ 
fessor’s wife had become the most talked-of woman in the world; her influence for 
good was spreading to its remotest corners, and henceforth she was to be a public 
character, whose every movement would be watched with interest, and whose every 
word would be quoted. The long, weary struggle with poverty was to be hers no 
longer; for, in seeking to aid the oppressed, she had also so aided herself that 
within four months from the time her book was published it had yielded her $10,- 
000 in royalties. 

In 1852 Professor Stowe received a call to the professorship of Sacred Literature 
in Andover Theological Seminary, and the family soon removed to their Massa¬ 
chusetts home. They were now relieved from financial pressure; but Mrs. Stowe’s 
health was still delicate; and in 1853 she went with her husband and brother to 
England, where she received, much to her surprise, a universal welcome. She 
made many friends among the most distinguished people in Great Britain, and on 
the continent as well. On her return she wrote the “Key to Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” 
and began “Dred, a Tale of the Dismal Swamp.” In fact, her literary career was 
just beginning. With “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” her powers seemed only to be fairly 




HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 


221 


awakened. One work after another came in quick succession. For nearly thirty 
years after the publication of “ Uncle Tom,” her pen was never idle. In 1854 she 
published “Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands,” and then, in rapid succession, 
“The Minister’s Wooing,” “The Pearl of Orr’s Island,” “Agnes of Sorrento,” 
“House and Home Papers,” “Little Foxes,” and “Oldtown Folks.” These, how¬ 
ever, are but a small part of her works. Besides more than thirty books, she has 
written magazine articles, short stories, and sketches almost without number. She 

has entertained, in- 
structed, and inspired 


a generation born long 
after the last slave was 
made free,and to whom 
the great question 
which once convulsed 
our country is only a 
name. But her first 
great work has never 
been surpassed, and it 
will never be forgotten. 

After the war which 
accomplished the abo¬ 
lition of slavery, Mrs. 
Stowe lived in Hart¬ 
ford, Connecticut, in 
summer, and spent the 
winters in Florida, 
where she bought a 
luxurious home. Her 
pen was hardly ever 



WtKKKtm 

'V A "' ■ 


Little Eva.- 


A SCENE IN UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 

‘Oh, Uncle Tom ! what funny tilings you are making there. 


idle; and the popular¬ 
ity of her works seemed 
to steadily increase. 
She passed away on 
the 1st of July, 1896, 


amid the surroundings 
her quiet, pretty 


of 
home 


at Hartford, 


Connecticut. The whole reading world was moved at the news of her death, and 
many a chord vibrated at the remembrance of her powerful, and we may even say 
successful, advocacy of the cause of the slave. The good which “Uncle Tom’s 
Cabin” achieved can never be estimated, and the noble efforts of its author have 
been interwoven in the work of the world. 








222 


HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 


THE LITTLE 

FROM “ UNCLE 

T was Sunday afternoon. St. Clare was 
stretched on a bamboo lounge in the 
verandah, solacing himself with a cigar. 
Marie lay reclined on a sofa, opposite the window 
opening on the verandah, closely secluded under an 
awning of transparent gauze from the outrages of 
the mosquitoes, and languidly holding in her hand 
an elegantly-bound prayer-book. She was holding 
it because it was Sunday, and she imagined she 
had been reading it—though, in fact, she had been 
only taking a succession of short naps with it open 
in her hand. 

Miss Ophelia, who, after some rumaging, had 
hunted up a small Methodist meeting within riding 
distance, had gone out, with Tom as driver, to at¬ 
tend it, and Eva accompanied them. 

“ I say, Augustine,” said Marie, after dozing 
awhile, “ I must send to the city after my old 
doctor, Posey; I’m sure I’ve got the complaint of 
the heart.” 

“Well; why need you send for him? This 
doctor that attends Eva seems skillful.” 

“ I would not trust him in a critical case,” said 
Marie; “ and I think I may say mine is becoming 
so! I’ve been thinking of it these two or three 
nights past; I have such distressing pains and such 
strange feelings.” 

O O. 

“ Oh, Marie, you are blue! I don’t believe it’s 
heart-complaint.” 

“ I daresay you don’t,” said Marie ; I was pre¬ 
pared to expect that. You can be alarmed enough 
if Eva coughs, or has the least thing the matter with 
her ; but you never think of me.” 

“ If it’s particularly agreeable to you to have 
heart-disease, why, I’ll try and maintain you have it,” 
said St. Clare; “ I didn’t know it was.” 

“Well, I only hope you won’t be sorry for this 
when it’s too late !” said Marie. “ But, believe it or 
not, my distress about Eva, and the exertions I have 
made with that dear child, have developed what I 
have long suspected.” 

What the exertions were which Marie referred to 
it would have been difficult to state. St. Clare 
quietly made this commentary to himself, and went 


EVANGELIST. 

tom’s cabin.” 

on smoking, like a hard-hearted wretch of a man as 
he was, till a carriage drove up before the verandah, 
and Eva and Miss Ophelia alighted. 

Miss Ophelia marched straight to her own chamber, 
to put away her bonnet and shawl, as was always her 
manner, before she spoke a word on any subject ; 
while Eva came at St. Clare’s call, and was sitting on 
his knee, giving him an account of the services they 
had heard. 

They soon heard loud exclamations from Miss 
Ophelia’s room (which, like the one in which they 
were sitting, opened to the verandah), and violent re¬ 
proof addressed to somebody. 

“ What new witchcraft has Tops been brewing? ” 
asked St. Clare. “ That commotion is of her raising. 
I’ll be bound ! ” 

And in a moment after, Miss Ophelia, in high in¬ 
dignation, came dragging the culprit along. 

“ Come out here, now ! ” she said. “ I ivitt te\\ your 
master ! ” 

“ What’s the case now ? ” asked Augustine. 

“ The case is, that I cannot be plagued with this 
child any longer! It’s past all bearing; flesh and 
blood cannot endure it! Here, I locked her up, and 
gave her a hymn to study and what does she do but 
spy out where I put my key, and has gone to my 
bureau and got a bonnet-trimming and cut it all to 
pieces to make dolls’ jackets ! I never saw anything 
like it in my life.” 

“ I told you, cousin,” said Marie, “ that you’d find 
out that these creatures can’t be brought up without 
severity. If I had my way, now,” she said, looking 
reproachfully at St. Clare, “ I'd send that child out 
and have her thoroughly whipped ; I’d have her 
whipped till she couldn’t stand ! ” 

“ I don’t doubt it,” said St. Clare. “ Tell me of 
the lovely rule of woman ! I never saw above a dozen 
women that wouldn’t half kill a horse, or a servant 
either, if they had their own way with them—let 
alone a man.” 

“ 'There is no use in this shilly-shally way of yours, 
St. Clare ! ” said Marie. “ Cousin is a woman of 
sense, and she sees it now as plain as I do.” 

Miss Ophelia had just the capability of indigna- 













HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 


223 



tion that belongs to the thorough-paced housekeeper, 
and this had been pretty actively roused by the 
artifice and wastefulness of the child; in fact, many 
ef my lady readers must own that they would have 
felt just so in her circumstances ; but Marie’s words 
went beyond her, and she felt less heat. 


“ I wouldn’t have the child treated so for the 
world,” she said ; “ but I am sure, Augustine, I don’t 
know what to do. I’ve taught and taught, I’ve 
talked till I’m tired, I’ve whipped her, I’ve punished 
her in every way I can think of; and still she’s just 
I what she was at first.” 


MISS OPHELIA AND TOPSY. 

I cannot be plagued with this child any longer ! 


« Come here, Tops, you monkey ! ” said St. Clare,; and blinking with a mixture apprelienriveness an* 

- . iboir huhqI ndd tlrnllpfV. 


calling the child up to him 

Topsy came up ; her round, hard eyes glittering 


their usual odd drollery. 

u What makes you behave so ? ” said St. Clare 


I 





























224 


HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 


who could not help being amused with the child s ex¬ 
pression. 

“ ’Spects it’s my wicked heart,” said Topsy, de¬ 
murely ; “ Miss Feely says so.” 

“ Don’t you see how much Miss Ophelia has done 
for you ? She says, she has done everything she can 
think of.” 

“ Lor, yes, mas’r! old missis used to say so, too. 
She whipped me a heap harder, and used to pull my 
ha’r, and knock my head agin the door; but it 
didn’t do me no good ! I ’spects if they’s to pull every 
spear o’ ha’r out o’ my head it wouldn’t do no good 
neither—I’s so wicked ! Laws! I’s nothin’ but a 
nigger, no ways ! ” 

“ Well, I shall have to give her up,” said Miss 
Ophelia; “ I can’t have that trouble any longer.” 

“ Well, I’d just like to ask one question,” said St. 
Clare. 

“ What is it ? ” 

“ Why, if your Gospel is not strong enough to 
save one heathen child, that you can have at home 
here, all to yourself, what’s the use of sending one 
or two poor missionaries off with it among thousands 
of just such ? I suppose this child is about a fair 
sample of what thousands of your heathen are.” 

Miss Ophelia did not make an immediate answer; 
and Eva, who had stood a silent spectator of the 
scene thus far, made a silent sign to Topsy to follow 
her. There was a little glass-room at the corner of the 
verandah, which St. Clare used as a sort of reading- 
room ; and Eva and Topsy disappeared into this place. 

“ What’s Eva going about now ? ” said St. Clare ; 
“ I mean to see.” 

And, advancing on tiptoe, he lifted up a curtain 
that covered the glass-door, and looked in, In a 
moment, laying his finger on his lips, he made a silent 
gesture to Miss Ophelia to come and look. There sat 
the two children on the floor, with their side faces 
towards them—Topsy with her usual air of careless 
drollery and unconcern ; but, opposite to her, Eva, 
her whole face fervent with feeling, and tears in her 
large eyes. 

“ What does make you so bad, Topsy ? Why won’t 
you try and be good ? Don’t you love anybody , 
Topsy ? ” 

“ Dun no nothin’ ’bout love ; I loves candy and 
eich, that’s all,” said Topsy. 




11 But you love your father and mother ?” 

“ Never had none, ye know. I telled ye that, Miss 
Eva.” 

“ Oh, I know,” said Eva, sadly ; “ but hadn’t you 

any brother, or sister, or aunt, or-” 

“ No, none on ’em—never had nothing nor no¬ 
body.” 


“ But, Topsy, if you’d only try to be good, you 
might-” 


“ Couldn’t never be nothin’ but a nigger, if I was 

“ If I could be skinned, 


ever so good,” said Topsy. 


and come white, I’d try then.” 

“ But people can love you, if you are black, 
Topsy. Miss Ophelia would love you if you were 


good.” 


Topsy gave the short, blunt laugh that was her 
common mode of expressing incredulity. 

“ Don’t you think so ? ” said Eva. 

“ No ; she can’t b’ar me, ’cause I’m a nigger!— 
she’d’s soon have a toad touch her. There can’t 
nobody love niggers, and niggers can’t do nothin’. I 
don’t care,” said Topsy, beginning to whistle. 

“ Oh, Topsy, poor child, / love you ! ” said Eva, 
with a sudden burst of feeling, and laving her little 
thin, white hand on Topsy’s shoulder. “ I love you 
because you haven’t had any father, or mother, or 
friends—because you’ve been a poor, abused child! 
I love you, and I want you to be good. I am very 
unwell, Topsy, and I think I sha’n’t live a great while ; 
and it really grieves me to have you be so naughty. 
I wish you would try to be good for my sake; it’s 
only a little while I shall be with you.” 

The round, keen eyes of the black child were 
overcast with tears ; large, bright drops rolled heavily 
down, one by one, and fell on the little white hand 
Yes, in that moment a ray of real belief, a ray of 
heavenly love, had penetrated the darkness of her 
heathen soul! She laid her head down between her 
knees, and wept and sobbed; while the beautiful 
child, bending over her, looked like the picture of 
some bright angel stooping to reclaim a sinner. 

“ Poor Topsy ! ” said Eva, “ don’t you know that 
Jesus loves all alike ? He is just as willing to love 
you as me. He loves you just as I do, only more, 
because He is better. He will help you to be good, 
and you can go to heaven at last, and be an angel 
for ever, just as much as if you were white. Only 























OCTAVE THANET. 


AMELIA E. BARR. ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS (WARD;. 



JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN. HARRIET BEECHER STOWK CHAS. F.GRERT CRADDOCK. 



MARION HARLAND. 


FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. 

NOTED WOMEN NOVELISTS 


HELEN HUNT JACKSON, 



















HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 


225 


think of it, Topsy, you can be one of those 1 spirits 
bright’ Uncle Tom sings about.” 

“ Oh, dear Miss Eva ! dear Miss Eva ! ” said the 
child, “ I will try ! I will try ! I never did care 
nothin’ about it before.” 

St. Clare at this moment dropped the curtain. “ It 
puts me in mind of mother,” he said to Miss 
Ophelia. “ It is true what she told me: if we want 
to give sight to the blind, we must be willing to do 
as Christ did—call them to us and put our hands on 
them.” 

“ I’ve always had a prejudice against negroes,” 
said Miss Ophelia; and it’s a fact, I never could bear 
to have that child touch me; but I didn’t think she 
knew it.” 

“ Trust any child to find that out,” said St. Clare : 


“ there’s no keeping it from them. But I believe 
that all the trying in the world to benefit a child, and 
all the substantial favors you can do them, will never 
excite one emotion of gratitude while that feeling 
of repugnance remains in the heart; it’s a queer 
kind of fact, but so it is.” 

“ I don’t know how I can help it,” said Miss 
Ophelia ; “ they are disagreeable to me—this child 
in particular. How can I help feeling so ? ” 

“ Eva does, it seems.” 

“ Well, she’s so loving ! After all, though, she’s no 
more than Christ-like,” said Miss Ophelia: “I wish 
I were like her. She might teach me a lesson.” 

“ It wouldn’t be the first time a little child had 
been used to instruct an old disciple, if it icere so,” 
said St. Clare. 


■■•<>• - 

THE OTHER WORLD. 



T lies around us like a cloud, 

The world we do not see; 

Yet the sweet closing of an eye 
May bring us there to be. 


So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, 
So near to press they seem, 

They lull us gently to our rest, 
They melt into our dream. 


Its gentle breezes fan our cheek, 

Amid our worldly cares ; 

Its gentle voices whisper love, 

And mingle with our prayers. 

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, 
Sweet helping hands are stirred ; 
And palpitates the veil between, 

With breathings almost heard. 


And, in the hush of rest they bring 
’Tis easy now to see, 

How lovely and how sweet to pass 
The hour of death may be ;— 

To close the eye and close the ear, 
Wrapped in a trance of bliss, 
And, gently drawn in loving arms, 
To swoon from that to this:— 


The silence, awful, sweet, and calm, 
They have no power to break ; 
For mortal words are not for them 
To utter or partake. 


Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, 
Scarce asking where we are, 

To feel all evil sink away, 

All sorrow and all care! 





15 P. H.| 























MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE. 

(MARION IIARLAND.) 

Popular Novelist and Domestic Economist. 




ARION HARLAND combines a wide variety of talent. She is 
probably the first writer to excel in the line of fiction and also to be 
a leader in the direction of domestic economy. She is one of the 
most welcomed contributors to the periodicals, and her books on 
practical housekeeping, common sense in the household, and several 
practical cookery books have smoothed the way for many a young 
housekeeper and probably promoted the cause of jieace in numerous households. 

Mary Virginia Hawes was the daughter of a native of Massachusetts who was 
engaged in business in Richmond, Virginia. She was born in 1831, and received a 
good education. She began in early childhood to display her literary powers. She 
wrote for the magazines in her sixteenth year and her first contribution, “ Marrying 
Through Prudential Motives,” was so widely read that it was published in nearly 
every journal in England, was translated and published throughout France, found 
its way back to England through a retranslation, and finally appeared in a new 
form in the United States. 

In 1856 she became the wife of Rev. Edward P. Terliune, afterwards pastor of 
the Puritan Congregational Church in Brooklyn, where in recent years they have 
lived. Mrs. Terhune has always been active in charitable and church work, and 
has done an amount of writing equal to that of the most prolific authors. She has 
been editor or conducted departments of two or three different magazines and estab¬ 
lished and successfully edited the “ Home Maker.” Some of her most noted stories 
are “ The Hidden Path ; ” “ True as Steel; ” “ Husbands and Homes ; ” “ Phemie’s 
Temptation ; ” “ Ruby’s Husband; ” “ Handicap ; ” “ Judith ; ” “A Gallant Fight; ” 
and “ His Great Self.” Besides these books and a number of others, she has written 
almost countless essays on household and other topics. Her book, “ Eve’s Daughters,” 
is a standard work of counsel to girls and young women. She takes an active part 
in the literary and philanthropic organizations of New York City, and lias been pro¬ 
minent in the Woman’s Councils held under tho auspices of a Chautauquan associa¬ 
tion. She was the first to call attention to the dilapidated condition of the grave of 
Mary Washington and started a movement to put the monument in proper condition. 
For the benefit of this movement, she wrote and published “ The Story of Mary 
Washington,” in 1802. 



































MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE. 


227 


A MANLY HERO * 


(FROM “ A GALLANT FIGHT.”) 


FTER donning velvet jacket and slippers 
Vj lie sat down, and, lighting liis cigar, leaned 
back to watch the fire and dream of 
Salome and their real home. 

Not until the weed was half consumed did he ob¬ 
serve an envelope on the table at his elbow. It was 
sealed and addressed to him in a “ back-hand” he did 
not recognize: 

“ In the Library. Nine O'clock , P. M. 

“ My Own Love —You say in your letter (burned 
as soon as I had committed the contents to memory) 
that I must never call you that again. There is a 
higher law than that of man's appointment, binding 
our hearts together, stronger even than that of your 
sweet, wise lips. Until you are actually married to 
the man whom } t ou confess you do not love, you will, 
according to that divine law, be my own Marion— ” 


had first robbed him, then let him play the sad-visaged 
dupe and fool, while the heyday of youth slipped 
forever beyond his reach ? 

To learn that—to remember the name with execra¬ 
tion—to despise with the full force of a wronged and 
honest soul—perhaps to brand him as a cur and 
blackguard, should he ever cross his path—would not 
break his word. Was it not his right—the poor rag 
of compensation he might claim for the incalculable, 
the damnable evil the traitor had wrought ? He would 
confess to Salome’s mother to-morrow—but this one 
thing he would do. 

He stooped for the letter. 

“ Peace ! let him rest! God knoweth best! 

And the flowing tide comes in ! 

And the flowing tide comes in ! ” 


With a violent start, the young man shook the 
sheet from his fingers as he would a serpent. 

This was what he had promised not to read, or so 
much as to touch ! The veins stood out high and 
dark on his forehead ; he drew in the air hissingly. 
Had a basilisk uncoiled from his bosom and thrust a 
forked tongue in his face the shock would not have 
been greater. This was “ the letter written to 
Marion ! ” He had thrown away six of the best 
years of his life upon the woman whom another man 
called his “ own love ;” the man to whom she had 
confessed that she did not love her betrothed husband ! 
Who was he ? 

“ If they are genuine, respect for the dead and 
mercy to the living require that they should be sup¬ 
pressed and destroyed,” Mrs. Phelps had said of 
u papers written a little ivhile before Marion’s death.” 
His word was pledged. But what name would he 
see if he reversed the sheet before destroying it? 
With a bound of the heart that would have assured 
him, had proof been needed, what his bonnie living 
girl-love was to him, he put away all tender memories 
of the dead, false betrothed. He had worshipped 
and mourned the thinnest of shadows. He might 
owe respect—abstractly—to the dead, but no rever¬ 
ence to a wild dream from which he had been 
awakened. Who was the “ living ” to whom he was 
entreated to show mercy ? Where was the man who 


It was only his beloved stepmother on her nightly 
round of nursery and Gerald's chamber, singing to 
her guileless self in passing her stepson’s door to 
prove her serenity of spirit; but Rex staggered back 
into his seat, put his elbows on his knees and covered 
his face with his hands. 

He smelled the balsam-boughs slanting to the 
water, the trailing arbutus Salome wore in her belt; 
heard the waves lapping the prow and sides of the 
bounding boat. God’s glorious heaven was over 
them, and the sun was rising, after a long, long night, 
in his heart. The fresh, tender young voice told the 
tale of love and loss and patient submission. 

Aye, and could not he, affluent in heaven’s best 
blessings, loving and beloved by the noble, true 
daughter of the Christian heroine who expected her 
“ son ” to stand fast by his plighted word—the almost 
husband of a pure, high-souled woman—afford to 
spare the miserable wretch whose own mind and 
memory must be a continual hell ? 

He pitied, he almost forgave him, as he took up 
the sheets from the floor, the scrap of paper from 
the table, and, averting his eyes lest the signature 
might leap out at him from the twisting flame, laid 
them under the forestick and did not look that way 
again until nothing was left of them but cinder and 
ashes. 


Copyright, Dodd, Mead <fc Co. 









MARY ABIGAIL DODGE. 


THE FAMOUS ESSAYIST, CRITIC, AND NOVELIST, “GAIL HAMILTON. 







MONG the female writers of America, perhaps there is no one who 
has covered a more diversified field and done her work more thor¬ 
oughly, in the several capacities of essayist, philosopher, political 
writer, child-writer and novelist, than has Miss Mary Abigail Dodge, 
widely known by her pen-name, “Gail Hamilton.” Miss Dodge 
commanded a terse, vigorous and direct style; and wfitli a courage 


manifested by few contemporaneous authors, she cut right through shams and 
deceits with an easy and convincing blow that left no room for doubt. 

Mary Abigail Dodge was born in Hamilton, Massachusetts, in the year 1830. 
Her pen-name is composed of the last syllable of the word “Abigail” and her 
native city, “Hamilton.” Her education was thorough, and in 1857 she was 
made instructor of physical science in the High School of Hartford, Connecticut. 
Some years after she became a governess in the family of Doctor Bailey the editor 
of the “National Era,” in Washington, D. C., and begun her career as a writer by 
contributing to his journal. For two years, from 1865 to 1867, she was one of the 
editors of “Our Young Folks,” and from that time to the close of her life she was 
a constant contributor to prominent magazines and newspapers—the name “ Gail 
Hamilton” attached to an essay w r as always a guarantee that it w r as full of wit and 
aggressiveness. 

The published volumes of this author in order of their publication are as follows : 
“ Country Living and Country Thinking ” (1862); “ Gala-Days ” (1863); “Stumb¬ 
ling Blocks” and “A New Atmosphere” (1864); “Skirmishes and Sketches” 
(1865); “Summer Rest” and “Red-letter Days in Applethorpe ” (1866); “Wool 
Gathering,” (1867); “ Woman’s Wrongs, a Counter-Irritant ” (1868); “Battle of the 
Books” (1870); “Woman’s Worth and Worthlessness” (1871). For a period of 
three years Miss Dodge devoted herself to the little folks, producing in 1872 
“Little Folk Life,” and the next year two other volumes, entitled “Child World.” 
In the same year, 1873, came her humorous book, entitled “Twelve Miles from a 
Lemon,” and in 1874 “Nursery Noonings,” another book for and about children. 
In 1875 appeared two volumes very unlike, but both of which attracted considerable 
attention. The first was entitled “Sermons to the Clergy,” in which she gave some 
wholesome advice and pointed out many of the shortcomings of ministers. The 
other book was entitled “First Love Is Best.” In 1876 Miss Dodge’s mind seemed 
to take on a more religious, moral and still more practical turn as evinced by the 

. ^ 



















































MARY ABIGAIL DODGE. 


229 


title of the following books: “ What Think Ye of Christ?” (1876); “Our Common 
School System ” (1880); “Divine Guidance” (1881); “The Insuppressible Book ” 
(1885); and “The Washington Bible Class” (1891). 

Miss Dodge was a cousin to the distinguished statesman, James G. Blaine, of 
whom she was very fond. Much of her time during the last few years of his life 
was spent with his family at Washington, and when Mr. Blaine died in January, 
1893, she undertook, in the interest of the family, to write his life, which work she 
finished and the book was published in 1894. It is the only authoritative life of the 1 
statesman endorsed by the family. This was Miss Hamilton’s last book. It was 
a congenial theme to which she devoted perhaps the most painstaking and best 
work ot her life. The last years of the busy author were marked by failing health. 
She died at Washington in 1896. 

-»o»- 


FISHING. 


(FROM “ GALA DAYS.”) 



OME people have conscientious scruples 
about fishing. I respect them. I had 
them myself. Wantonly to destroy, for 
mere sport, the innocent life in lake or river, seemed 
to me a cruelty and a shame. But people must fish. 
Now, then, how shall your theory and practice be 
harmonized ? Practice can’t yield. Plainly, theory 
must. A year ago I went out on a rock in the 
Atlantic Ocean, held a line—just to see how it 
seemed—and caught eight fishes; and every time a 
fish came up, a scruple went down. * * * * Which 
facts will partially account for the eagerness with 
which I, one morning, seconded a proposal to go 
a-fishing in a river about fourteen miles away. 
******** 
They go to the woods, I hang my prospective trout 
on my retrospective cod and march river ward. Hali¬ 
carnassus, according to the old saw, “ leaves this world 
and climbs a tree,” and, with jacknife, cord and per¬ 
severance, manufactures a fishing-rod, which he cour¬ 
teously offers to me, which I succinctly decline, in¬ 
forming him in no ambiguous phrase that I consider 
nothing beneath the best as good enough for me. 
Halicarnassus is convinced by my logic, overpowered 
by my rhetoric, and meekly yields up the best rod, 
though the natural man rebels. The bank of the 
river is rocky, steep, shrubby, and difficult of ascent 
or descent. Halicarnassus bids me tarry on the bridge, 
while he descends to reconnoitre. I am acquiescent, 
and lean over the railing awaiting the result of in¬ 


vestigation. Halicarnassus picks his way over rocks, 
sideways and zigzaggy along the bank, and down the 
river in search of fish. I grow tired of playing leasa- 
bianca and steal behind the bridge, and pick my way 
over the rocks sidewise and zigzaggy along the bank, 
and up the river, in search of “fun ;” practice irre-' 
gular and indescribable gymnastics with variable suc¬ 
cess for half an hour or so. Shout from the bridge. 
I look up. Too far off to hear the words, but see 
Halicarnassus gesticulating furiously, and evidently 
laboring under great excitement. Retrograde as 
rapidly as circumstances will permit. Halicarnassus 
makes a speaking trumpet of his hands and roars, 
“ I’ve found—a fish ! Left—him for—you—to 
catch ! come quick ! ”—and plunging headlong down 
the bank disappears. I am touched to the heart by 
this sublime instance of self-denial and devotion, and 
scramble up to the bridge, and plunge down after 
him. Heel of boot gets entangled in hem of dress 
every third step—fishing-line in tree-top every second ; 
progress therefore not so rapid as could be desired. 
Reach the water at last. Step cautiously from rock 
to rock to the middle of the stream—balance on a 
pebble just large enough to plant both feet on, and 
just firm enough to make it worth while to run the 
risk—drop my line into the spot designated—a quiet, 
black little pool in the rushing river—see no fish, but 
have faith in Harlicarnassus. 

“ Bite?” asks Halicarnassus eagerly. 

“Not yet,” I answer sweetly. Breathless expecta- 









230 


MARY ABIGAIL DODGE. 


tion. Lips compressed. Eyes fixed. Five minutes 
gone. 

“ Bite?” calls Halicarnassus from down the river. 

“ Not yet,” hopefully. 

u Lower your line a little. I'll come in a minute.” 
Line is lowered. Arms begin to ache. Bod sud¬ 
denly bobs down. Snatch it up. Only an old stick. 
Splash it off contemptuously. 

“ Bite? ” calls Halicarnassus from afar. 

“ No,” faintly responds Marius, amid the ruins of 
Carthage. 

“ Perhaps he will by and by,” suggests Halicar¬ 
nassus encouragingly. Five minutes more. Arms 
breaking. Knees trembling. Pebble shaky. Brain 
dizzy. Everything seems to be sailing down stream. 
Tempted to give it up, but look at the empty basket, 
think of the expectant party, and the eight cod-fish, 
and possess my soul in patience. 

“ Bite ? ” comes the distant voice of Halicarnassus, 
disappearing by a bend in the river. 

“ No ! ” I moan, trying to stand on one foot to rest 
the other, and ending by standing on neither; for 
the pebble quivers, convulses, and finally rolls over 
and expires; and only a vigorous leap and a sudden 
conversion of the fishing-rod into a balancing-pole 
save me from an ignominious bath. Weary of the 
world, and lost to shame, I gather all my remaining 
strength, wind the line about the rod, poise it on high, 


11 

hurl it out in the deepest and most unobstructed part { 
of the stream, * * * lie down upon the rock, pull 
my hat over my face, and dream, to the furling of 
the river, the singing of the birds, and the music of 
the wind in the trees, of another river, far, far, away. 

?{c ^ 

“ Hullo ! how many ? ” ) 

“ I start up wildly, and knock my hat off into the | 
water. Jump after it, at the imminent risk of going 
in myself, catch it by one of the strings, and stare at 
Halicarnassus.” 

“Asleep, I fancy?” says Halicarnassus, interroga¬ 
tively. J 

sp vp *p vL* vp «p 

/p* 

We walk silently towards the woods. We meet a 
small boy with a tin pan and thirty-six fishes in it. 
We accost him. 

“ Are these fishes for sale ? ” asks Halicarnassus. 

“ Bet they be! ” says small boy with energy. 

Halicarnassus looks meaningly at me. I look 
meaningly at Halicarnassus, and both look meaningly 
at our empty basket. “ Won’t you tell ? ” says 
Halicarnassus. “No; won’t you?” Halicarnassus 
whistles, the fishes are transferred from pan to basket, 
and we walk away “ chirp as a cricket,” reach the 
sylvan party, and are speedily surrounded. 

“ 0 what beauties ! Who caught them ? How 
many are there ? ” 
















HELEN MARIA FISKE HUNT JACKSON. 

“ THE FRIEND OF THE RED MAN.” 

NE of the sights pointed out to a traveler in the West is Cheyenne 
Canyon, a wild and weird pass in the Rocky Mountains a short dis¬ 
tance from Colorado S 2 irings. Some years ago the writer, in com¬ 
pany with a party of tourists, drove as far as a vehicle could pass 
up the mountain-road that wound along a little stream which came 
tumbling down the narrow ravine splitting the mountain in twain. 
Soon we were compelled to abandon the wagon, and on foot we climbed the rugged 
way, first on one side and then on the other of the rushing rivulet where the narrow 
path could find space enough to lay its crooked length along. Suddenly a little log- 
cabin in a clump of trees burst on our view. A boy with a Winchester rifle slung 
over his shoulder met us a few rods from the door and requested a fee of twenty- 
five cents each before permitting us to pass. 

“ What is it ?” inquired one of the party pointing at the cabin. “ This is the 
house Helen Hunt lived in and away above there is where she is buried,” answered 
the boy. We paid the fee, inspected the house, and then, over more rocky steeps, 
we climbed to the spot indicated near a falling cataract and stood beside a qoile of 
stones thrown together by hundreds of tourists who had preceded us. It was the 
lonely grave of one of the great literary women of our age. We gathered some 
stones and added them to the pile and left her alone by the singing cataract, beneath 
the sighing branches of the firs and pines which stood like towering sentinels around 
her on Mount Jackson—for this peak was named in her honor. “ What a monu¬ 
ment!” said one, “ more lasting than hammered bronze!” “But not moreso,” said 
another, “ than the good she has done. Her influence will live while this mountain 
shall stand, unless another dark age should sweep literature out of existence.” “I 
wonder the Indians don’t convert this place into a shrine and come here to worship,” 
ventured a third person. “Her ‘Ramona,’ written in their behalf, must have been 
produced under a divine inspiration. She was among all American writers their 
greatest benefactor.” 

Helen Maria Fiske was born in Amherst, Mass., October 18, 1831. She was the 
daughter of Professor Nathan Fiske of Amherst College, and was educated at 
Ipswick (Mass.) Female Seminary. In 1852 she married Captain Edward B. Hunt 
of the U. S. Navy, and lived with him at various posts until 1863, when he died. 
After this she removed to Newport, R. I., with her children, but one by one they 
died, until 1872 she was left alone and desolate. In her girlhood she had contributed 

231 

























HELEN MARIA FISKE HUNT JACKSON. 


9-19 



some verses to a Boston paper which were printed. She wrote nothing more until 
two years after the death of her husband, when she sent a number of poems to New 
York papers which were signed H. H. and they attracted wide and favorable criti¬ 
cism. These poems were collected and published under the title of “ Verses from 
H. H.” (1870). After the death of her children she decided to devote herself to 
literature, and from that time to the close of her life—twelve years later—her books 
came in rapid succession and she gained wide distinction as a writer of prose and 
verse. Both her poetry and prose works are characterized by deep thoughtfulness 
and a rare grace and beauty of diction. 

In 1873 Mrs. Hunt removed to Colorado for the benefit of her health, and in 
1875 became the wife of Wm. S. Jackson, a merchant of Colorado Springs; and it 
was in this beautiful little city, nestling at the foot of Pike’s Peak, with the perpetual 
snow on its summit always in sight, that she made her home for the remainder of 
her life, though she spent considerable time in traveling in New Mexico, Cali¬ 
fornia and the Eastern States gathering material for her books. 

Briefly catalogued, the works of Helen Hunt Jackson are: “ Verses by H. H.” 
(1870) ; “ Bits of Travel” (1873) ; “ Bits of Talk About Home Matters” (1873) ; 

“Sonnets and Lyrics” (1876); “ Mercy Philbrick’s Choice” (1876); “ Hettie’s 
Strange History ” (1877) ; “ A Century of Dishonor ” (1881); “ Bamona ” (1884). j 

Besides the above, Mrs. Jackson wrote several juvenile books and two novels in 
the “ No Name” series ; and that powerful series of stories, published under the pen- 
name of “ Saxe Holme,” has also been attributed to her, although there is no abso¬ 
lute proof that she wrote them. “ A Century of Dishonor ” made its author more 
famous than anything she produced up to that time, but critics now generally agree 
that “ Bamona,” her last book, is her most powerful work, both as a novel and in its 
beneficent influence. It was the result of a most profound and exhaustive study of 
the Indian problem, to which she devoted the last and best years of her life. It 
was her most conscientious and sympathetic work. It was through Helen Hunt 
Jackson’s influence that the government instituted important reforms in the treat¬ 
ment of the red men. 

In June, 1884, Mrs. Jackson met with a painful accident, receiving a bad fracture 
of her leg. She was taken to California while convalescing and there contracted 
malaria, and at the same time developed cancer. The complication of her ailments 
resulted in death, which occurred August 12, 1885. Her remains were carried back 
to Colorado, and, in accordance with her expressed wish, buried on the peak look¬ 
ing down into the Cheyenne Canyon. The spot was dear to her. The cabin below 
had been built for her as a quiet retreat, where, when she so desired, she could 
retire with one or two friends, and write undisturbed, alone with the primeval 
forest and the voices which whispered through nature, and the pure, cool mountain-air. 


CHRISTMAS NIGHT AT SAINT PETER'S. 



OW on the marble floor I lie: 

I am alone: 

Though friendly voices whisper nigh, 
And foreign crowds are passing by, 

I am alone. 


Great, hymns float through 
The shadowed aisles. I hear a slow 
Refrain, “ Forgive them, for they know 
Not what they do ! ” 










HELEN MAKIA FISKE HUNT JACKSON 


233 


With tender joy all others thrill; 

I have but tears : 

The false priests’ voices, high and shrill, 
Reiterate the “ Peace, good will 
I have but tears. 

I hear anew 

The nails and scourge ; then come the low 
Sad words, “ Forgive them, for they know 
Not what they do ! ” 

Close by my side the poor souls kneel; 

I turn away; 

Half-pitying looks at me they steal; 

They think, because I do not feel, 

I turn away ; 

Ah ! if they knew, 

How following them, where’er they go, 

I hear, “ Forgive them, for they know 
Not what they do ! ” 

Above the organ’s sweetest strains 
I hear the groans 
Of prisoners, who lie in chains, 

So near and in such mortal pains, 

I hear the groans. 


But Christ walks through 
The dungeon of St. Angelo, 

And says, “ Forgive them, for they know 
Not what they do ! ” 

And now the music sinks to sighs ; 

The lights grow dim : 

The Pastorella’s melodies 
In lingering echoes float and rise; 

The lights grow dim ; 

More clear and true, 

In this sweet silence, seem to flow 
The words, “ Forgive them, for they know 
Not what they do ! ” 

The dawn swings incense, silver gray; 

The night is past; 

Now comes, triumphant, God’s full day; 
No priest , no church can bar its way: 

The night is past: 

How on this blue 

Of God’s great banner, blaze and glow 
The words, “ Forgive them, for they know 
Not what they do !” 


CHOICE OF COLORS. 


HE other day, as I was walking on one of 
|ffi gjpfi the oldest and most picturesque streets of 
BC&Ma Mi the old and picturesque town of Newport, 
R. I., I saw a little girl standing before the window 
of a milliner’s shop. 

It was a very rainy day. The pavement of the 
sidewalks on this street is so sunken and irregular 
that in wet weather, unless one walks with very 
great care, he steps continually into small wells of 
water. Up to her ankles in one of these wells stood 
the little girl, apparently as unconscious as if she 
were high and dry before a fire. It was a very cold 
day too. I was hurrying along, wrapped in furs, and 
not quite warm enough even so. The child was but 
thinly clothed. She wore an old plaid shawl and a 
ragged knit hood of scarlet worsted. One little red 
ear stood out unprotected by the hood, and drops of 
water trickled down over it from her hair. She 
seemed to be pointing with her finger at articles in 
the window, and talking to some one inside. I 
watched her for several moments, and then crossed 
the street to see what it all meant. I stole noiselessly 
up behind her, and she did not hear me. The win¬ 


dow was full of artificial flowers, of the cheapest sort, 
but of very gay colors. Here and there a knot of 
ribbon or a bit of lace had been tastefully added, 
and the whole effect was really remarkably gay and 
pretty. Tap, tap, tap, went the small hand against 
the window-pane; and with every tap the uncon¬ 
scious little creature murmured, in a half-whispering, 
half-singing voice, “ I choose that color.’' u I choose 
that color.” “ I choose that color.” 

I stood motionless. I could not see her face; 
but there was in her whole attitude and tone the 
heartiest content and delight. I moved a little to 
the right, hoping to see her face, without her seeing 
me ; but the slight movement caught her ear, and in 
a second she had sprung aside and turned toward me. 
The spell was broken. She was no longer the queen 
of an air-castle, decking herself in all the rainbow 
hues which pleased her eye. She was a poor beggar 
child, out in the rain, and a little frightened at the 
approach of a stranger. She did not move away, 
however; but stood eyeing me irresolutely, with that 
pathetic mixture of interrogation and defiance in her 
face which is so often seen in the prematurely devel- 










234 


HELEN MARIA FISKE HUNT JACKSON. 


oped faces of poverty-stricken children. “ Aren’t the 
colors pretty ? ” I said. She brightened instantly. 

“ Yes’m. I’d like a goon av thit blue.” 

“ But you will take cold standing in the wet,” said 
I. “ Won’t you come under my umbrella? ” 

She looked down at her wet dress suddenly, as if 
it had not occurred to her before that it was raining. 
Then she drew first one little foot and then the other 
out of the muddy puddle in which she had been 
standing, and, moving a little closer to the window, 
said, “ I’m not jist goin’ home, mem. I’d like to 
stop here a bit.” 

So I left her. But, after I had gone a few blocks, 
the impulse seized me to return by a cross street, and 
see if she were still there. Tears sprang to my eyes 
as I first caught sight of the upright little figure, 
standing in the same spot, still pointing with the 
rhythmic finger to the blues and reds and yellows, 
and half chanting under her breath, as before, “ I 
choose that color.” “I choose that color.” “I 
choose that color.” 

I went quietly on my way, without disturbing her 
again. But I said in my heart, “ Little Messenger, 


Interpreter, Teacher! I will remember you all my 
life.” 

Why should days ever be dark, life ever be color¬ 
less? There is always sun; there are always blue 
and scarlet and yellow and purple. We cannot reach 
them, perhaps, but we can see them, if it is only 
“through a glass, and “darkly,”—still we can see 
them. We can “ choose ” our colors. It rains, per¬ 
haps ; and we are standing in the cold. Never mind. 
If we look earnestly enough at the brightness which 
is on the other side of the glass, we shall forget the 
wet and not feel the cold. And now and then a 
passer-by, who has rolled himself up in furs to keep 
out the cold, but shivers nevertheless,—who has 
money in his purse to buy many colors, if he likes, 
but, nevertheless, goes grumbling because some colors 
are too dear for him,—such a passer-by, chancing to 
hear our voice, and see the atmosphere of our content, 
may learn a wondrous secret,—that pennilessness is 
not poverty, and ownership is not possession ; that to 
be without is not always to lack, and to reach is not 
to attain; that sunlight is for all eyes that look up, 
and color for those who “ choose.” 


I 




* 

* 

* 


FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. 



FAMOUS AUTHOR OF “ LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.” 

F Mrs. Burnett were not a native of England, she might be called a 
typical American woman. As all Americans, however, are descended 
at very few removes from foreign ancestors, it may, nevertheless, be 

said of the young English girl, who crossed the ocean with her 

widowed mother at the age of sixteen, that she has shown all the 
pluck, energy and perseverance usually thought of as belonging to 
Americans. She settled with her mother and sisters on a Tennessee farm; but soon 
began to write short stories, the first of which was published in a Philadelphia 
magazine in 1867. Her first story to achieve popularity was “ That Lass o’ 

Lowrie’s,” published in “ Scribner’s Magazine” in 1877. It is a story of a 

daughter of a miner, the father a vicious character, whose neglect and abuse render 
all the more remarkable the virtue and real refinement of the daughter. Mrs. 
Burnett delights in heroes and heroines whose characters contrast strongly with 
their circumstances, and in some of her stories, especially in “ A Lady of Quality,” 
published in 1895, she even verges on the sensational. 

In 1873 Miss Hodgson was married to Doctor Burnett, of Knoxville, Tennessee. 
After a two years’ tour in Europe, they took up their residence in the city of TV ash- 
ington, where they have since lived. 

Mrs. Burnett’s longest novel, “ Through One Administration,” is a story of the 
political and social life of the Capital. “ Pretty Polly Pemberton,” “ Esmeralda,” 
“ Louisiana,” “A Fair Barbarian,” and “ Haworth’s” are, after those already 
mentioned, her most popular stories. “ That Lass o’ Lowrie’s ” has been dramatized. 
Mrs. Hodgson is most widely known, however, by her Children Stories, the most 
famous of which, “Little Lord Fauntleroy,” appeared as a serial in “St. Nicholas” 
in 1886, and has since been dramatized and played in both England and America. 

Since 1885 her health has not permitted her to write so voluminously as she had 
previously done, but she has, nevertheless, been a frequent contributor to periodicals. 
Some of her articles have been of an auto-biographical nature, and her story “ The 
One I Knew Best of All ” is an account of her life. She is very fond of society 
and holds a high place in the social world. Her alert imagination and her gift of 
expression have enabled her to use her somewhat limited opportunity of observa¬ 
tion to the greatest advantage, as is shown in her successful interpretation of the 
Lancashire dialect and the founding of the story of Joan Lowrie on a casual 
glimpse, during a visit to a mining village, of a beautiful young woman followed 
by a cursing and abusive father. 

235 


























236 


FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. 


PRETTY POLLY P* 

FROM “ PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON.” 



RAMLEIGH,” ventured little Popham, 
“ you haven’t spoken for half an hour, by 
Jupiter!” 

Framleigh—Captain Gaston Framleigh, of the 
Guards—did not move. He had been sitting for 
some time before the window, in a position more 
noticeable for ease than elegance, with his arms folded 
upon the back of his chair; and he did not disturb 
himself, when he condescended to reply to his youth¬ 
ful admirer and ally. 

“Half an hour?” he said, with a tranquil half¬ 
drawl, which had a touch of affectation in its cool¬ 
ness, and yet was scarcely pronounced enough to be 
disagreeable, or even unpleasant. “Haven’t I?” 

“ No, you have not,” returned Popham, encour¬ 
aged by the negative amiability of his manner. “ I 
am sure it is half an hour. What’s up?” 

“ Up ?” still half-abstractedly. “ Nothing ! Fact 
is, I believe I have been watching a girl!” 

Little Popham sprang down, for he had been sitting 
on the table, and advanced toward the window, hur¬ 
riedly, holding his cigar in his hand. 

“ A girl!” he exclaimed. “Where? What sort 
of a girl ?” 

“ As to sort,” returned Framleigh, “ I don’t know 
the species. A sort of girl I never saw before. But, if 
you wait, you may judge for yourself. She will soon 
be out there in the garden again. She has been 
darting in and out of the house for the last twenty 
minutes.” 

“ Out of the house ?” said Popham, eagerly, “ Do 
you mean the house opposite ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ By Jupiter!” employing his usual mild expletive, 
“ look here, old fellow, had she a white dress on, and 
geranium-colored bows, and—” 

“ Yes,” said Framleigh. “ And she is rather tall 
for such a girl; and her hair is cut, on her round 
white forehead, Sir Peter Lely fashion (they call it 
banging, I believe), and she gives you the impression, 
at first, of being all eyes, great dark eyes, with—” 

“ Long, curly, black lashes,” interpolated Popham, 
with enthusiasm. “ By Jupiter ! I thought so ! It’s 
pretty Polly P.” 


He was so evidently excited that Framleigh looked 
up with a touch of interest, though he was scarcely a 
man of enthusiasm himself. 

“ Pretty Polly P.!” he repeated. “ Rather familiar 
mode of speech, isn’t it ? Who is pretty Polly P.?” 

Popham, a good-natured, sensitive little fellow, 
actually colored. 

“ Well,” he admitted, somewhat confusedly, “ I 
dare say it does sound rather odd, to people who 
don’t know her; but I can assure you, Framleigh, 
though it is the name all our fellows seem to give 
her with one accord, I am sure there is not one of 
them who means it to appear disrespectful, or—or 
even cheeky,” resorting, in desperation, to slang. 
“ She is not the sort of a girl a fellow would ever be 
disrespectful to, even though she is such a girl—so 
jolly and innocent. For my part, you know, I’d face 
a good deal, and give up a good deal any day, for 
pretty Polly P.; and I’m only one of a many.” 

Framleigh half smiled, and then looked out of 
the window again, in the direction of the house 
opposite. 

“ Daresay,” he commented, placidly. “ And very 
laudably, too. But you have not told me what the 
letter P. is intended to signify. 1 Pretty Polly P.’ is 
agreeable and alliterative, but indefinite. It might 
mean Pretty Polly Popham.” 

“ I wish it did, by Jupiter!” cordially, and with 
more color ; “ but it does not. It means Pember¬ 
ton?” 

“ Pemberton !” echoed Framleigh, with an intona¬ 
tion almost savoring of disgust. “ You don’t mean 
to say she is that Irish fellow’s daughter?” 

“ She is his niece,” was the answer, “ and that 
amounts to the same thing, in her case. She has 
lived with old Pemberton ever since she was four years 
old, and she is as fond of him as if he was a woman, 
and her mother; and he is as fond of her as if she 
was his daughter ; but he couldn’t help that. Every 
one is fond of her.” 

“ Ah !” said Framleigh. “ I see. As you say, 
‘She is the sort of girl.’ ” 

“There she is, again!” exclaimed Popham, sud¬ 
denly. 


* Copyright, T. B. Peterson & Bros. 









FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. 


237 


And there she was, surely enough, and they had a ] i 
full view of her, geranium-colored bows and all. She ; 
seemed to be a trifle partial to the geranium-colored 
bows. Not too partial, however, for they were very 
nicely put on. Here and there, down the front of 
her white morning dress, one prettily adjusted on the 
side of her hair, one on each trim, slim, black kid 
slipper. If they were a weakness of hers, they were 
by no means an inartistic one. And as she came 
down the garden-walk, with a little flower-pot in her 
hands—a little earthen-pot, with some fresh gloss¬ 
leaved little plant in it—she was pleasant to look at, 
pretty Polly P.—very pleasant; and Gaston Fram- 
leigh was conscious of the fact. 

It was only a small place, the house opposite and 
the garden was the tiniest of gardens, being only a 
few yards of ground, surrounded by iron railings. 
Indeed, it might have presented anything but an at¬ 
tractive appearance, had pretty Polly P. not so 
crowded it with bright blooms. Its miniature-beds 
were full of brilliantly-colored flowers, blue-eyed lobelia, 
mignonette, scarlet geraniums, a thrifty rose or so, 
and numerous nasturtiums, with ferns, and much 
pleasant, humble greenery. There were narrow boxes 
of flowers upon every window-ledge, a woodbine 
climbed round the door, and, altogether, it was a very 
different place from what it might have been, under 
different circumstances. 

And down the graveled path, in the midst of all 
this flowery brightness, came Polly with her plant to 
set out, looking not unlike a flower herself. She was 
very busy in a few minutes, and she went about her 
work almost like an artist, flourishing her little 
trowel, digging a nest for her plant, and touching it, 
when she transplanted it, as tenderly as if it had been 
a day-old baby. She was so earnest about it, that, 
before very long, Framleigh was rather startled by 
hearing her begin to whistle, softly to herself, and, 
seeing that the sound had grated upon him, Popham 
colored and laughed half-apologetically. 

“ It is a habit of hers,” he said. “ She hardly 
knows when she does it. She often does things 
other girls would think strange. Put she is not like 
other girls.” 

Framleigh made no reply. He remained silent, and 
simply looked at the girl. He was not in the most 
communicative of moods, this morning; he was feel¬ 


ing gloomy and depressed, and not a little irritable, 
as he did, now and then. He had good reason, he 
thought, to give way to these fits of gloom, occasion¬ 
ally ; they were not so much an unamiable habit as 
his enemies fancied; he had some ground for them, 
though he was not prone to enter into particulars 
concerning it. Certainly he never made innocent 
little Popham, “ Lambkin Popham,” as one of his 
fellow-officers had called him, in a brilliant moment, 
his confidant. He liked the simple, affectionate little 
fellow, and found his admiration soothing; but the 
time had not yet arrived, when the scales not yet hav¬ 
ing fallen from his eyes, he could read such guileless, 
almost insignificant problems as “ Lambkin ” Popham 
clearly. 

So his companion, only dimly recognizing the out¬ 
ward element of his mood, thought it signified a dis¬ 
taste for that soft, scarcely unfeminine, little piping 
of pretty Polly’s, and felt bound to speak a few words 
in her favor. 

“ She is not a masculine sort of a girl at all, Fram- 
lei<dihe said. “ You would be sure to like her. 
The company fairly idolize her.” 

“Company!” echoed Framleigh. “What com- 
pany ? 

“ Old Buxton’s company,” was the reply. “ The 
theatrical lot at the Prince’s, you know, where she 
acts.” 

Framleigh had been bending forward, to watch 
Polly patting the mould daintily, as she bent over 
her flower-bed ; but he drew back at this, conscious 
of experiencing a shock, far stronger and more 
disagreeable than the whistling had caused him to 
feel. 

“ An actress !” he exclaimed, in an annoyed tone. 

“ Yes, and she works hard enough, too, to support 
herself, and help old Pemberton,” gravely. 

“ The worse for her,” with impatience. “ And the 
greater rascal old Pemberton, for allowing it.” 

It was just at this moment that Polly looked up. 
She raised her eyes carelessly to their window, and 
, doing so, caught sight of them both. Young Pop¬ 
ham blushed gloriously, after his usual sensitive fash¬ 
ion, and she recognized him at once. She did not 
blush at all herself, however ; she just gave him an arch 
little nod, and a delightful smile, which showed her 
pretty white teeth. 









MARY NOAILLES MURFREE. 

(CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK.) 

Author of the “Prophet of the Smoky Mountains .” 

HE pen name of Charles Egbert Craddock lias become familiarly 
known throughout the English-speaking world in connection with 
the graphic delineations of character in the East Tennessee Moun¬ 
tains, to which theme the writings of this talented author have been 
devoted. Until long after the name had become famous the writer 
was supposed to be a man, and the following amusing story is told of 
the way in which the secret leaked out. Her works were published by a Boston 
editor, and the heavy black handwriting, together with the masculine ring of her 
stories, left no suspicion that their author was a delicate woman. Thomas Baily 
Aldrich, who was editor of the “ Atlantic Monthly,” to which her writings came, 
used to say, after an interval had elapsed subsequent to her last contribution, “I 
wonder if Craddock has taken in his winter supply of ink and can let me have a 
serial.” One day a card came to Mr. Aldrich bearing the well-known name in the 
well-known writing, and the editor rushed out to greet his old contributor, expecting 
to see a rugged Tennessee mountaineer. When the slight, delicate little woman 
arose to answer his greeting it is said that Mr. Aldrich put his hands to his face and 
simply spun round on his heels without a word, absolutely bewildered with astonish¬ 
ment. 

Miss Murfree was born in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, in 1850, and is the great- 
granddaughter of Colonel Hardy Murfree of Revolutionary fame, for whom the 
city of Murfreesboro was named. Her father was a lawyer and a literary man, 
and Mary was carefully educated. Unfortunately in her childhood a stroke of 
paralysis made her lame for life. After the close of the war, the family being left 
in destitute circumstances, they moved to St. Louis, Missouri, and Miss Murfree 
contributed largely to their pecuniary aid by her fruitful pen. Her volumes 
include “In the Tennessee Mountains” (1884), “Where the Battle was Fought” 
(1884), “Down the Ravine” (1885), “The Prophet of the Great Smoky Moun» 
tains” (1885), “In the Clouds” (1886), “The Story of Keedon Bluffs” (1887), 
“The Despot of Broomsedge Cove” (1888), all of which works have proven their 
popularity by a long-continued sale, and her subsequent works will no doubt achieve 
equal popularity. She has contributed much matter to the leading magazines of the 
day. She is a student of humanity and her portraitures of Tennessee moun- 

238 




































MARY NOAILLES MURFREE. 


239 

tamecrs have great historic value aside from the entertainment they furnish to the 
careless reader. It is her delineation of mountain character and her description of 
mountain scenery that have placed her works so prominently to the front in this 
critical and prolific age of novels. _ “Her style,” says a recent reviewer, “is bold, 
^ ^ umoi , yet as delicate as a bit of lace, to which she adds great power of plot 

and a keen wit, together with a homely philosophy bristling with sparkling truths, 
bor instance, the little old woman who sits on the edge of a chair” in one of her 
novels, and remarks “There ain’t nothin’ so becomin’ to fools as a sliet mouth,” 
lias added quite an original store to America’s already proverbial literature. 

-»o»- 


THE CONFESSION* 

(FROM “ THE PROPHET OF THE GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS.”) 


HE congregation composed itself to listen to 
the sermon. There was an expectant 
pause. Kelsey remembered ever after the 
tumult of emotion with which he stepped forward 
to the table and opened the book. He turned to the 
New Testament for his text,—and the leaves with a 
familiar hand. Some ennobling phase of that won¬ 
derful story which would touch the tender, true 
affinity of human nature for the higher things,— 
from this he would preach to-day. And yet, at the 
same moment, with a contrariety of feeling from 
which he shrank aghast, there was sulking into his 
mind that gruesome company of doubts. In double 
file they came: fate and free agency, free-will and 
fore-ordination, infinite mercy and infinite justice, 
God’s loving kindness and man’s intolerable misery, 
redemption and damnation. He had evolved them 
all from his own unconscious logical faculty, and they 
pursued him as if he had, in some spiritual necromancy, 
conjured up a devil—nay, a legion of devils. Per¬ 
haps if he had known how they had assaulted the 
hearts of men in times gone past; how they had been 
combated and baffled, and yet have risen and pur¬ 
sued again; how in the scrutiny of science and 
research men have passed before their awful presence, 
analyzed them, philosophized about them, and found 
them interesting; how others, in the levity of the 
world, having heard of them, grudged the time to 
think upon them,—if he had known all this, he 
might have felt some courage in numbers. As it was, 
there was no fight left in him. He closed the book 
with a sudden impulse, “ My frien’s,” he said, “I 
Stan’ not hyar ter preach ter day, but fur confession.” 


There was a galvanic start among the congregation, 
then intense silence. 

“ I hev los’ my faith ! ” he cried out, with a poig¬ 
nant despair. “ God ez’ gin it—ef thear is a God— 
he’s tuk it away. You-uns kin go on You-uns kin 
b’lieve. Yer paster b’lieves, an’ he’ll lead ye ter 
grace,—leastwise ter a better life. But fur me 
thar’s the nethermost depths of hell, ef ”—how his 
faith and his unfaith now tried him !—“ ef thar be 
enny hell. Leastwise—Stop, brother,” he held up 
his hand in deprecation, for Parson Tobin had risen 
at last, and with a white, scared face. Nothing like 
this had ever been heard in all the length and breadth 
of the Great Smoky Mountains. 11 Bear with me a 
little; ye’ll see me hyar no more. Fur me thar is 
shame, ah ! an’ trial, ah ! an’ doubt, ah! an’ despair, 
ah ! The good things o’ heaven air denied. My 
name is ter be er byword an’ a reproach ’mongst ye. 
Ye’ll grieve ez ye hev ever learn the Word from me, 
ah! Ye’ll be held in derision! An’ I hev hed 
trials,—none like them es air cornin’, cornin’ down 
the wind. I hev been a man marked fur sorrow, 
an’ now fur shame.” He stood erect; he looked 
bold, youthful. The weight of his secret, lifted now, 
had been heavier than he knew. In his eyes shone 
that strange light which was frenzy or prophecy, or 
inspiration ; in his voice rang a vibration they had 
never before heard. “ I will go forth from ’mongst 
ye,—I that am not of ye. Another shall gird me an’ 
carry me where I would not. Hell an’ the devil hev 
prevailed agin me. Pray fur me, brethren, ez I 
cannot pray fur myself. Pray that God may yet 
speak ter me—speak from out o’ the whirlwind.” 



* Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 












ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD. 

AUTHOR OF “ GATES AJAR!” 

HIS is said to be a practical age and there is much talk about the 
materialistic tendencies of the time and the absorption of the people 
in affairs of purely momentary and transient importance. It is 
nevertheless true that the books which attract the most attention 
are the most widely read, and best beloved are those which deal with 
the great questions of life and of eternity. It was upon “ The Gates 
Ajar ” that Elizabeth Stuart Phelps founded her reputation. It dealt entirely with 
the questions of the future life treating them in a way remarkably fresh and vigorous, 
not to say daring, and its reception was so favorable that it went through twenty 
editions during its first year. 

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps was the daughter of a professor in the Andover Theo¬ 
logical Seminary. She had been christened with another name; but on the death 
of her mother, in 1852, she took her name in full. She had been publishing sketches 
and stories since her thirteenth year, her writings being largely related to charitable, 
temperance and other reform work. She has written a long series of books begin¬ 
ning with “ Ellen’s Idol” in 1864, and including a number of series—“The Tiny 
Series,” “ The Gypsy Series,” etc., intended for Sunday-school libraries, and some 
fifteen or twenty stories and books of poems. Besides these, she has written sketches, 
stories and poems in large numbers for the current magazines. 

In 1888 she became the wife of Rev. Herbert D. Ward. Their summer home is 
at East Gloucester, Massachusetts, while in winter they live at Newton Highlands. 
Thoughtfulness and elevation of spirit mark all Mrs. Ward’s literary work. The 
philanthropic purpose is evident in every one of them, and she contributes to the 
cause of humanity, not only through her books, but in the time, labor and money 
which she freely bestows. Mrs. Ward may be taken as a practical example of that 
noble type of American women who combine literary skill, broad intelligence, and 
love of mankind with a high degree of spirituality and whose work for humanity 
is shown in the progress of our people. Her purpose lias always been high and 
the result of her work ennobling. In her books the thought of man and the 
thought of God blend in a harmony very significant of the spirit of the time, a spirit 
which she has done much to awaken and to promote. 

240 







































ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD. 


241 


THE HANDS AT HAYLE AND KELSO’S* 
(from “the silent partner.”) 


F you are one of the “ hands,” then in Hayle 
ESS B?i and Kelso you have a breakfast of bread 
and molasses probably ; you are apt to eat 
it while you dress. Somebody is beating the kettle, 
but you cannot wait for it. Somebody tells you that 
you have forgotten your shawl; you throw it over one 
shoulder and step out, before it is fastened, into the 
sudden raw air. You left lamplight indoors, you find 
moonlight without. The night seems to have over¬ 
slept itself; you have a fancy for trying to wake it— 
would like to shout at it or cry through it, but feel 
very cold, and leave that for the bells to do by-and- 
by? 

You and the bells are the only waking things in 
life. The great brain of the world is in serene re¬ 
pose ; the great heart of the world lies warm to the 
core with dreams; the great hands of the world, the 
patient, the perplexed—one almost fancies at times, 
just for fancy—seeing you here by the morning moon, 
the dangerous hands alone are stirring in the dark. 

You hang up your shawl and your crinoline, and 
understand, as you go shivering by gaslight to your 
looms, that you are chilled to the heart, and that you 
were careless about your shawl, but do not consider 
carefulness worth your while by nature or by habit; 
a little less shawl means a few less winters in which 
to require shawling. You are a godless little creature, 
but you cherish a stolid learning, in those morning 
moons, towards making an experiment of death and 
a wadded coffin. 

By the time the gas is out, you cease perhaps—though 
you cannot depend upon that—to shiver, and incline 
less and less to the wadded coffin, and more to a chat 
with your neighbor in the alley. Your neighbor is 
of either sex and any description as the case may be. 
In any event—warming a little with the warming 
day—you incline more and more to chat. 

If you chance to be a cotton weaver, you are pres¬ 
ently warm enough. It is quite warm enough in 
the weaving-room. The engines respire into the 
weaving-room; with every throb of their huge lungs 
you swallow their breath. The weaving-room stifles 


with steam. The window-sills are gutted to prevent 
the condensed steam from running in streams along 
the floor; sometimes they overflow, and the water 
stands under the looms. The walls perspire pro¬ 
fusely ; on a damp day drops will fall from the roof. 
The windows of the weaving-room are closed. They 
must be closed; a stir in the air will break } T our 
threads. There is no air to stir; you inhale for a 
substitute a motionless hot moisture. If you chance 
to be a cotton weaver, it is not in March that you 
think most about your coffin. 

Being a “ hand ” in Hayle and Kelso, you are 
used to eating cold luncheon in the cold at noon; or 
you walk, for the sake of a cup of soup or coffee, lialf- 
a-mile, three-quarters, a mile and a-half, and back. 
You are allowed three-quarters of an hour to do 
this. You go and come upon the jog-trot. 

*1/ O. vlr O# 

#p /p /p ^ /p 

From swearing you take to singing; both perhaps, 
are equal relief—active and diverting. There is - 
something curious about that singing of yours. The. 
tune, the place, the singers, characterize it sharply; 
the waning light, the rival din, the girls with tired 
faces. You start some little thing with a refrain, and 
a ring to it. A hymn, it is not unlikely ; something 
of a River and of Waiting, and of Toil and Rest, or 
Sleep, or Crowns, or Harps, or Home, or Green 
Fields, or Flowers, or Sorrow, or Repose, or a dozen 
other things ; but always, it will be noticed, of simple 
spotless things, such as will surprise the listener who 
caught you at your oath of five minutes past. You 
have other songs, neither simple nor spotless, it may 
be; but you never sing them at your work when the 
waning day is crawling out from spots beneath your 
loom, and the girls lift up their tired faces to catch 
and keep the chorus in the rival din. 

You are singing when the bell strikes, and singing 
still when you clatter down the stairs. Something 
of the simple spotlessness of the little song is on 
your face when you dip into the wind and dusk. 


Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 


1H P. H. 










AMELIA E. BAER. 


THE POPULAR NOVELIST. 




EEHAPS no other writer in the United States commands so wide a 
circle of readers, both at home and abroad, as does Mrs. Barr. She 
is, however, personally, very little known, as her disposition is some¬ 
what shy and retiring, and most of her time is spent at her home 
on the Storm King Mountain at Cornwall-on-the-Hudson, New 
York 

Mrs. Barr’s life has been an eventful one, broken in upon by sorrow, bereavement 


and hardship, and she has risen superior to her trials and made her way through 
difficulties in a manner which is possible only to an individual of the strongest 
character. 

Amelia E. Huddleston was born at Ulverstone, in the northwest of England, in 
1832. She early became a thorough student, her studies being directed by her 
father, who was an eloquent and learned preacher. When she was seventeen, she 
went to a celebrated school in Scotland; but her education was principally derived 


from the reading of books to her father. 


When about eighteen she was married to Robert Barr, and soon after came to 
America, traveling in the West and South. They were in New Orleans in 1856 
and were driven out by the yellow fever, and settled in Austin, Texas, where Mr. 
Barr received an appointment in the comptroller’s office. Removing to Galveston 
after the Civil War, Mr. Barr and his four sons died in 1876 of yellow fever. As 
soon as she could safely do so, Mrs. Barr took her three daughters to New York, 
where she obtained an appointment to assist in the education of the three sons of a 
prominent merchant. When she had prepared these boys for college, she looked 
about for other means of livelihood, and, by the assistance of Henry Ward Beecher 
and Doctor Lyman Abbott, she was enabled to get some contributions accepted by 
Messrs. Harper & Brothers, for whose periodicals she wrote for a number of years. 
An accident which happened to her in 1884 changed her life and conferred upon 


the world a very great benefit. She was confined to her chair for a considerable 


time, and, being compelled to abandon her usual methods of work, she wrote her 
first novel, “ Jan Yedder’s Wife.” It was instantly successful, running through 
many editions, and has been translated into one or two European languages. Since 
that time she has published numerous stories. One of the most successful was 
“Friend Olivia,” a study of Quaker character which recalls the closing years of 
the Commonwealth in England, and which her girlhood’s home at Ulverstone, the 
scene of the rise of Quakerism, gave her special advantages in preparing. It is an 

242 



































AMELIA E. BARR. 


243 


unusually powerful story ; and the pictures of Cromwell and George Fox are not only 
refreshingly new and bright but remarkably just and appreciative. Some of her other 
stories are “ Feet of Clay,” the scene of which is laid on the Isle of Man; “The Bow of 
Orange Ribbon,” a study of Dutch life in New York; “ Remember the Alamo,” 
recalling the revolt of Texas; “ She Loved a Sailor,” which deals with sea life and 
which draws its scenes from the days of slavery ; “ The Last of the MacAllisters 
“ A Sister of Lsau ; ” and “ A Bose of a Hundred Leaves.” Only a slight study of 
Mrs. Barr’s books is necessary to show the wide range of her sympathies, her quick 
and vivid imagination, and her wonderful literary power ; and her career has been 
an admirable illustration of the power of some women to win success even under the 
stress of sorrow, disaster and bereavement. 


LITTLE JAN’S TRIUMPH* 
(from “jane vedder’s wife.”) 


S slie approached her house, she saw a crowd 
of boys, and little Jan walking proudly 
in front of them. One was playing 
“Miss Flora McDonald’s Reel' 1 on a violin, and 
the gay strains were accompanied by finger-snapping, 
whistling, and occasional shouts. “ There is no quiet 
. to be found anywhere, this morning,” thought Mar- 
' garet, but her curiosity was aroused, and she went 
| towards the children. They saw her coming, and 
with an accession of clamor hastened to meet her. 
Little Jan carried a faded, battered wreath of un- 
, recognizable materials, and he walked as proudly as 
Pompey may have walked in a Roman triumph. 
When Margaret saw it, she knew well what had hap- 
j pened, and she opened her arms, and held the boy to 
1 her heart, and kissed him over and over, and cried 
| out, “Oh, my brave little Jan, brave little Jan! 
1 How did it happen then ? Thou tell me quick.” 

1 “Hal Ragner shall tell thee, my mother;” and 
r Hal eagerly stepped forward : 

f “ It was last night, Mistress A edder, we were all 

■ watching for the‘ Arctic Bounty; ’ but she did not come, 
lind this morning as we were playing, the word was 
3 passed that she had reached Peter Eae’s pier. Then 
r we all ran, but thou knowest that thy Jan runs like a 
1 red deer, and so he got far ahead, and leaped on 
6 board, and was climbing the mast first of all. Then 
5 Bor Skade, he tried to climb over him, and Nichol 

■ Sinclair, he tried to hold him back, but the sailors 
j shouted, ‘ Bravo, little Jan Vedder!” and the skip- 
I per shouted 1 Bravo!’ and thy father, he shouted 


higher than all the rest. And when Jan had cut 
loose the prize, he was like to greet for joy, and he 
clapped his hands, and kissed Jan, and he gave him 
five gold sovereigns,—see, then, if he did not!” 
And little Jan proudly put his hand in his pocket, 
and held them out in his small soiled palm. 

The feat which little Jan had accomplished is one 
which means all to the Shetland boy that his first 
bulfalo means to the Indian youth. When a whaler 
is in Arctic seas, the sailors on the first of May make 
a garland of such bits of ribbons, love tokens, and 
keepsakes, as have each a private history, and this 
they tie to the top of the mainmast. There it 
swings, blow high or low, in sleet and hail, until the 
ship reaches her home-port. Then it is the supreme 
emulation of every lad, and especially of every sailor’s 
son, to be first on board and first up the mast to cut 
it down, and the boy who does it is the hero of the 
day, and has won his footing on every Shetland boat. 

What wonder, then, that Margaret was proud and 
happy ? What wonder that in her glow of delight 
the thing she had been seeking was made clear to 
her ? How could she go better to Suneva than with 
this crowd of happy hoys ? If the minister thought 
she ought to share one of her blessings with Suneva, 
she would double her obedience, and ask her to share 
the mother’s as well as the wife’s joy. 

« One thing I wish, boys,” she said happily, “let 
us go straight to Peter Fae’s house, for Hal Ragner 
must tell Suneva Fae the good news also.” So, with 
a shout, the little company turned, and very soon 


* Copyright, Dodd, Mead & Co. 














244 AMELIA 

Suneva, who was busy salting some fish in the cellar ] 
of her house, heard her name called by more than 
fifty shrill voices, in fifty different keys. 

She hurried upstairs, saying to herself, “ It will be 
good news, or great news, that has come to pass, no 
doubt; for when ill-luck has the day, he does not call 
any one like that; he comes sneaking in.” Her rosy 
face was full of smiles when she opened the door, 
but when she saw Margaret and Jan standing first of 
all, she was for a moment too amazed to speak. 

Margaret pointed to the wreath : “ Our Jan took 
it from the topmast of the ‘ Arctic Bounty,’ ” she 


E. BARR. 

! said. “ The boys brought him home to me, and I 
have brought him to thee, Suneva. I thought thou 
would like it.” 

“ Our Jan !” In those two words Margaret can¬ 
celled everything remembered against her. Suneva’s 
eyes filled, and she stretched out both -ier hands to 
her step-daughter. 

“ Come in, Margaret! Come in, my crave, darling 
Jan ! Come in, boys, every one of you l There is 
cake, and wheat bread, and preserved iruit enough 
for you all; and I shall find a shilling for every boy 
here, who has kept Jan's triumph with him.” 


THE OLD PIANO. 


W still and dusky is the long-closed room ! 
What lingering shadows and what faint 

O O 

perfume 

Of Eastern treasures!—sandal wood and 
scent 

With nard and cassia and with roses blent. 

Let in the sunshine. 

Quaint cabinets are here, boxes and fans, 

And hoarded letters full of hopes and plans. 

I pass them by. I came once more to see 
The old piano, dear to memory, 

In past days mine. 

Of all sad voices from forgotten years, 

Its is the saddest; see what tender tears 
Drop on the yellow keys as, soft and slow, 

I play some melody of long ago. 

How strange it seems ! 

The thin, weak notes that once were rich and strong 
Give only now the shadow of a song— 

The dying echo of the fuller strain 
That I shall never, never hear again, 

Unless in dreams. 



What hands have touched it! Fingers small and 
white, 

Since stiff and weary with life’s toil and fight; 

Dear clinging hands that long have been at rest, 
Folded serenely on a quiet breast. 

Only to think, 

0 white sad notes, of all the pleasant days, 

The happy songs, the hymns of holy praise, 

The dreams of love and youth, that round you cling ! 
Do they not make each sighing, trembling string 
A mighty link ? 

The old piano answers to my call, 

And from my fingers lets the lost notes fall. 

0 soul! that I have loved, with heavenly birth 
Wilt thou not keep the memory of earth, 

Its smiles and sighs ? 

Shall wood and metal and white ivory 
Answer the touch of love with melody, 

And thou forget ? Dear one, not so. 

I move thee yet (though how I may not know) 
Beyond the skies. 




















MISS ALICE FRENCH. 

(Octave Thanet ). 

CHE REPRESENTATIVE NOVELIST OF THE SOUTHWEST. 


one of the most prominent among our modern women novelists 
stands the name of Octave Thanet. The real owner of this widely 
known pen-name is Miss Alice French. Though Miss French is 
recognized as the representative novelist of Missouri, Arkansas, and 
the Southwest generally, where she has lived for many years, she is 
by birth and education a genuine Yankee woman, and on both sides 
a descendant from old Puritan stock. Her ancestors came over in the Mayflower. 
They count among them many Revolutionary heroes and not a few persecutors of 
the witches one hundred and fifty and two hundred years ago, and they, also, num¬ 
ber to themselves some of the modern rulers and prominent ministers of Massa¬ 
chusetts. 

Mr. French, the father of the authoress, was during his life a loyal Westerner, 
but it is said never lost his fondness for the East and went there regularly every sum¬ 
mer, and his daughter still maintains the custom. While Mr. French was a thorough 
business man, he was, moreover, an enthusiastic lover of books and the fine arts, 
and instilled into Miss Alice during her early training a love for reading, and 
encouraged her to write. 



Shortly after her graduation at Abbott Academy, Andover, Massachusetts, Miss 
French sent a manuscript for publication, but the editors to whom she sent it advised 
her to wait until her judgment was more mature and her reading more extensive. 
She accepted their advice and remained silent for several years, and then sent her 
first book, “ The Communist’s Wife,” to a New York publisher, who declined it, 
whereupon she forwarded it to other publishers, and it was finally brought out by 
Lippiucotts of Philadelphia, and made such a success that assured easy access for 
her subsequent works, through any publisher to whom she would send them, to the 
reading world. The royalty on her various books now brings her a handsome and 


steady income. 

Among the most prominent publications of Octave Thanet’s are “ Knitters in 
the Sun ” (Boston, 1887) ; “ Otto the Knight ” (1888) ; “ Expiated ” and “ We 
All,” issued from New York in 1890. Since that date she has written several other 
volumes of equal merit, each new book adding to her well-established reputation 
and popularity. She has also edited the best “ Letters of Lady Montague.” 

The pen-name of this writer was the result of chance. When in school she had 
a room-mate, Octavia, who was familiarly known as Octave. The word Thanet she 











































246 


MISS ALICE FRENCH. 


saw by chance printed on a passing freight car. It struck her fancy and she 
adopted it; hence the pseudonym “Octave Thanet.” It is said that she regrets hav¬ 
ing adopted a nom-de-plume , but since she has made her fame under that name she 
continues to use it. Miss French is something of a philosopher and artist as well 
as a novelist, and is deeply read in historical studies as well as the English-German 
philosophers. She is one of the most domestic of women and declares that she is a 
great deal better cook than a writer, and that it is a positive delight to her to arrange 
a dinner. Most prominent women have a fad, and that of Miss French is for col¬ 
lecting china. She is also fond of outdoor sports and takes considerable interest 
in politics. While not an advocate of woman’s suffrage, she declares herself to be a 
moderate free-trade Democrat, and a firm believer in honest money. Whether the 
latter term implies a single gold standard or the free coinage of silver, the writer is 
unable to ascertain. 

The strength of Octave Thanet’s writing is largely due to the fact that she studies 
her subjects assiduously, going to original sources for her pictures of bygone times, 
and getting both facts and impressions so far as possible from the fountain-head. 
She is regarded not only as the best delineator of the life of the middle Western 
States, but the most careful student of human nature, and, perhaps the best story¬ 
teller among our modern short-story writers. She lives a simple life on a farm and 
draws her characters from the people around about her. 


TWO LOST AND FOUND * 

[FROM “ KNITTERS IN TIIE SUN.”] 


Y rode along, Ruffner furtively watch- 
ig Bud, until finally the elder man spoke 
ith the directness of primitive natures 
and strong excitement: 

“ Whut’s come ter ye, Bud Quinn? Ye seem all 
broke up ’beout this yere losin’ yo’ little trick (child); 
yet ye didn’t useter set no gre’t store by ’er—least, 
looked like—” 

“ I knaw,” answered Bud, lifting his heavy eyes, 
too numb himself with weariness and misery to be 
surprised,—“ I knaw, an’ ’t are curi’s ter me too. 
I didn’t set no store by ’er w’en I had ’er. I taken 
a gredge agin ’er kase she hadn’t got no good sense, 
an’ you all thro wed it up to me fur a jedgment. 
An’ knowin’ how I hadn’t done a thing to hurt Zed, 
it looked cl’ar agin right an’ natur’ fur the Lord ter 
pester me that a-way; so someways I taken the 
notion ’twar the devil, and that he got inter Ma’ 
Bowlin’, an’ I mos’ cudn’t b’ar the sight ’er that pore 
little critter. But the day she got lost kase ’er tryin’ 
ter meet up with me, I ’lowed mabbe he tolled ’er off, 


an’ I sorter felt bad fur ’er, an’ w’en I seen them little 
tracks ’er her n, someways all them mean feelin’s I 
got they jes broked off short insider me like a string 
mought snap. They done so. An’ I wanted thet 
chile bader'n I ever wanted anything.” 

“ Law me ! ” said Ruffner, quite puzzled. “ But, 
say, Bud, ef ye want ’er so bad’s all thet, ye warn’t 
wanter mad the Lord by lyin’, kase He are yo’ on’y 
show now. Bud Quinn, did ye hurt my boy?” He 
had pushed his face close to Bud’s, and his mild eyes 
were glowing like live coals. 

“ Naw, Mr. Ruffner,” answered Bud, quietly. “ I 
never teched a ha’r ’er ’is head !” 

Ruffner kept his eager and almost fierce scrutiny a 
moment, then he drew a long gasping sigh, crying, 
“ Blame my skin ef I don’ b’lieve ye! I’ve ’lowed, 
fur a right smart, we all used ye mighty rough.” 

“ ’Tain’t no differ,” said Bud, dully. Nothing 
mattered now, the poor fellow thought; Ma’ Bow¬ 
lin’ was dead, and Sukey hated him. 

Ruffner whistled slowly and dolefully ; that was his 



*By Permission Hougton Mifflin & Co. 











MISS ALICE FRENCH. 


247 


way of expressing sympathy ; but the whistle died on 
his lips, for Bud smote his shoulder, then pointed to¬ 
ward the trees. 

“Look a-thar!” whispered Bud, with a ghastly 
face and dilating eyeballs. “ Oh, Lord A’mighty, 
thar’s her—an’ him ! ” 

Bulfner saw a boat leisurely propelled by a long 
pole approaching from the river-side, a black-haired 
young man in the bow with the pole, a fair-haired 
little girl in the stern. The little girl jumped up, and 
at the same instant a shower of water from light fly¬ 
ing heels blinded the young man. 

“ Paw ! Paw !” screamed tike little girl. “ Maw 
tole Ma’ Bowlin’—meet up—paw !” * * * * 

Just as the big clock in the store struck the last 
stroke of six, Sukey Quinn, who had been cowering 
on the platform steps, lifted her head and put her 
hand to her ear. Then everybody heard it, the long 
peal of a horn. The widow from Georgia ran quickly 
up to Sukey and threw her arms about her shoulders. 


For a second the people held their breath. It had 
been arranged that whoever found the lost child 
should give the signal by blowing his horn, once if the 
searchers came too late, three times if the child should 
be alive. Would the horn blow again ? 

“ It are Bud’s horn ! ” sobbed Sukey. “ Ile’d never 
blow fur onst. Hark! Thar’t goes agin ! Three 
times! An’ me wouldn’t liev no truck with ’im, but 
she set store by Ma’ Bowlin’ all the time.” 

Horn after horn caught up the signal joyfully, and 
when the legitimate blowing was over, two enterpris¬ 
ing boys exhausted themselves on a venerable horn 
which was so cracked that no one would take it. In 
an incredibly short time every soul within hearing dis¬ 
tance, not to mention a herd of cattle and a large 
number of swine, had run to the store, and when at 
! last two horses’ heads appeared above the hill, and the 
1 crowd could see a little pink sun-bonnet against Bud 
| Quinn’s brown jean, an immense clamor rolled out. 









JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN. 

THE STORY-TELLER OF THE PILGRIMS. 

HIS famous daughter of the Pilgrims has become a specialist in their 
behalf, and has pledged her remaining years to develop their story. 
Every summer she visits Plymouth, where she constantly studies 
not only the written records of the Pilgrim Fathers, but the crumbling 
gravestones and the oral traditions which have come down among 
their descendants. Her contribution to the literature of early New 
England possesses a rare value, found, perhaps, in no other writer, enriched from 
her intimate knowledge of the pioneers of the Eastern Colonists gained from her 
long study, thorough reading, and a careful investigation of their history and 
traditions. 

Mrs. Austin was born at Worcester, Massachusetts, in 1831. Her parents were 
from Plymouth, and counted their lineage back to the Mayflower Pilgrims in no less 
than eight distinct lines. She also claims a descent from Francis le Baron ; thus, 
believers in heredity will recognize in this the root of Mrs. Austin’s remarkable 
devotion to Pilgrim stories and traditions. Her father, Isaac Goodwin, was a lawyer 
of considerable prominence, and had also devoted much study to genealogy. Her 
brother, the Honorable John A. Goodwin, was the author of “The Pilgrim Republic,” 
which is considered the best history of the settlement of Plymouth. Her mother, 
besides being a poet and song-writer, was also a lover of the traditions and anecdotes 
of her native region, and many of the stories embodied in Mrs. Austin’s later works 
she has heard as a child at her mother’s knee, especially those relating to “The 
Nameless Nobleman,” “Francis le Baron and His Family.” 

Among the best of Mrs. Austin’s Pilgrim story-books are “The Nameless 
Nobleman” (1881); “Standish of Standish” (1889); “Doctor le Baron and His 
Daughters” (1890); and “Betty Alden” (1891). These cover the ground from the 
landing of the Pilgrims upon Plymouth Rock in 1620 to the days of the Revolu¬ 
tion in 1775. Aside from these books, Mrs. Austin has produced in addition to a 
number of magazine stories and some poems, “Fairy Dream” (1859); “Dora 
Darling” (1865); “Outpost” (1866); “Taylor Boy” (1867); “Cypher”. (1869); 
“The Shadow of Moloch Mountains” (1870) ; “Moon-Folk” (1874) ; “ Mrs. Beau¬ 
champ Brown ” (1880); and “ Nantucket Scraps ” (1882). Since 1891 Mrs. Austin 
has added a fifth volume to her “ Pilgrim Stories,” completing the series. All of 
her writings are in a finished style, remarkable alike for delicacy, purity and clear¬ 
ness of expression, and her work is distinctly American. 

248 





























JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN. 


249 


Personally Mrs. Austin is a charming woman, much beloved by those who know 
her best. She has three children, and her home is with a married daughter at 
Roxbury, Massachusetts; but she spends much of her time in Boston. 

-- 

AN AFTERNOON IN NANTUCKET * 

FROM “ NANTUCKET SCRAPS,” 1883 . 


HE drowsy hours of afternoon were devoted 
to the museum, collected and exhibited by 
the public-spirited widow of a sea-captain 
named McCleve. An upper room to her comfortable 
house is devoted to the curios, although, like attar of 
roses, or some penetrating oils, they seem to have 
saturated the entire mansion,—the good-natured 
proprietress occasionally haling a favored guest away 
from the rest to look at some quaint picture, piece 
of china, or bit of furniture in her own private apart¬ 
ments. The party of twelve or fourteen collected on 
this special afternoon were taken to the upper room 
and seated around a small table, as if for a spiritual 
seance , the hostess arranging precedence and proximity 
with an autocratic good-humor to which everybody 
yielded except the senor, who, standing looking in 
at the door, was presently accosted with— 

“ That gentleman at the door—why—I’ve seen 
that face before ! Don’t you tell me it’s Sam ! ” 

“ No, I won’t, Aunty McCleve, for you’d be sure 
to contradict me if I did,” replied the senor, coolly; 
whereupon Aunty shook him affectionately by the 
hand, assuring him he was the same “ saucy boy ” he 
used to be, and dragged him most reluctantly to a 
seat in the magical circle. 

“ At what period of the entertainment do we pay ?” 
inquired one of the persons one meets everywhere, 
and who may be called the whit-leather of society. 
Mrs. McCleve looked at him with an appreciative 
eye for a moment, and then quietly replied : 

“ Well, it isn’t often people bring it out quite so 
plain as that, but I guess you'd better pay now before 
you forget it.” Whit-leather does not suffer from 
sarcasm, and the practical man, producing a quarter 
of a dollar, held it tight while asking— 

“ Have you got ten cents change ? ” 

“ No, brother; but you can keep your quarter till 
I have,” replied Aunty, with the quiet gleam still in 
her eye, and the business was soon adjusted. This 


over, she placed upon the table a tray containing 
some really exquisite carvings in whale’s-tooth ivory, 
comprising a set of napkin-rings, thread-winders, 
spoons of various sizes, knife-handles, and several 
specimens of a utensil peculiar to Nantucket, called 
a jagging-knife, used for carving ornamental patterns 
in pastry,—a species of embroidery for which Nan¬ 
tucket housewives were once famous, although, 
“ pity ’tis, tis true,” they have now largely emanci¬ 
pated themselves from such arts. 

As the guests examined these really wonderful 
products of talent almost unaided by implements or 
training, one of the ladies naturally inquired : “ Who 
did these?” The hostess assumed a sibylline atti¬ 
tude and tone: “ Perhaps, my dear, you can tell us 
that; and if so, you’ll be the first one I ever met 
that could.” This obscure intimation of course 
awakened an interest far deeper than the carvings, 
in every mind ; and in reply to a shower of question¬ 
ing the sibyl gave a long and intricate narration, 
beginning with the presence on board of her hus¬ 
band’s whale-ship of a mystic youth with the man¬ 
ners and bearing of Porphyrogenitus, and the rating 
of a common sailor; the delicate suggestion of a 
disguised lady was also dimly introduced. What 
succeeds is yet more wonderful, as Scheherezade 
always said when obliged to cut short the story tha? 
the Sultan might get up and say his prayers; but we 
will not evade Mrs. McCleve’s copyright by telling 
it, simply advising everyone to go and listen to it. 

“ Two, four, six, eight, ten—elev-en ! ” counted 
she at the end, picking up the napkin-rings; “ I 
don’t seem to see that twelfth ring! ” and she looked 
hard at the unfortunate that had acquired her dislike 
in the first of the interview by an unfeeling allusion 
to money. 

“ Here it is, Aunty,” remarked the senor. “ I 
wanted to hear you ask after it.” 

“ Now, look at here, Sammy, you’re too old for 



* Copyright, Jas. R. Osgood. 













250 


JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN. 


such tricks,” exposulated the dame, in precisely the 
tone one admonishes a child; and then turning to the 
company generally she added confidentially : 

“ I ain’t one of them that’s given to suspicion, and 
it ain’t a Nantucket failing; but last summer there 
was a boy, one of those half-grown critters, you 
know, neither beef nor veal, and I just saw him 
pocket—well, it was that very knife-handle. I 
always kept an eye on it since, thinking it might be 
off yet. So I waited till I saw he actooally meant it, 
and was fixing to go off with it, and then says I: 

“ ‘ Well, sonny, going to unload before you start 
out on a new v’yge ?' So that's all about the carv¬ 
ings; and these are shark’s teeth,—none of your 
Wauwinet sand-sharks that would run away from a 
puppy-dog no bigger than that, but a reg’lar man- 
eater off the West Indies; and these very teeth took 
a man’s leg off.” 

“ Horrible ! ” cried one, while another, one of the 
persistent souls who must finish A before they begin 
B, inquired: “ But did the boy give up the knife- 
handle?” 

“ Why, of course he did, my dear, since that’s it,” 
replied the hostess compassionately; and then, with 
the inborn courtesy peculiar to Nantucket folk, turned 
aside the laugh that followed by hastily displaying 
some new marvel. The room was crowded with marine 
curiosities, many of them brought home by the 
deceased captain, many of them presented to his 
relict by his comrades or by her own friends; they 
were mostly such as we have seen many times in 
many places, but some few were sui generis, such as 
a marriage contract between a Quaker bachelor and 
maid in the early days of the island, with the signa¬ 
tures of half the settlers appended as witnesses, 
mutual consent before others being the only ceremony 
required by the canon of these Non-sacramentarians. 
Then there# was Phoebe Ann’s comb, a wonderful 
work of art in tortoise shell, anent which the posses¬ 
sor, Phoebe Ann’s sister, delivered a short original 
poem, setting forth how ardently Phoebe Ann had 
desired one of these immense combs, their price being 
eight dollars each ; and how, having engaged it, she 
set to work to earn it by picking berries for sale ; but 
before the pence had grown to the pounds the big 
comb was out of fashion, and poor Phoebe Ann’s hair, 
which had been wonderfully luxuriant, fell off through 


illness, and what remained was cut short. Nantucket 
probity would not, however, be off its bargain for 
such cause as this; and Phoebe Ann paid her money 
and took her ornamental comb,—more useful in its 
present connection, perhaps, than it could have been 
in any other. The crown and glory of Mrs. McCleve’s 
museum, however, is a carved wooden vase, twelve or 
fourteen inches in height, made from the top of one 
of the red-cedar posts planted a century or two since 
by this lady’s ancestor, to inclose a certain parcel of 
land belonging to him. Twenty or thirty years ago 
the fence was to be renewed, and one of her cousins 
proposed to her to drive out to the place and secure 
a relic of the original island cedar now extinct. She 
accepted; and the section of the post, sawed off with 
great exertion by the cousin, was turned and carved 
into its present shape in “ Cousin Reuben Macy’s 
shop on Orange Street.” 

But all this set forth in an original poem delivered 
with much unction by its author, who decisively 
refuses a copy to any and everybody, and is even 
chary of letting any one listen to it more than once. 
It is original—in fact, one may say, intensely original 
—and quite as well worth listening to as the saga of 
a royal skald. It begins after this fashion : 

“This vase, of which we have in contemplation, 
Merits, my friends, your careful observation. 
******** 

Saturday, the busiest day of all, 

From Cousin Thomas I received a call.” 

Some lost couplets record the invitation to drive, 
and the demur on account of pies then baking in the 
oven; but this being overruled by masculine persua¬ 
siveness— 

“Across the hall I gayly skipped. 

And soon was for the cruise equipped.” 

Then follows the drive, the arrival, and the attempt 
to cut the stern old cedar trunk with a dull saw,— 

“Cousin Thomas worked with desperation, 

Until he was in a profuse perspiration,” 

and finally secured the trophy here exhibited. But 
these stray couplets give a very inadequate idea of 
the poem as delivered by its author; and he who 






JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN. 


251 


visits Nantucket and does not hear it has for the 
rest of his life a lost opportunity to lament. 

Just at the close of the recital the poetess fixed her 
eye steadily upon a figure beside one of the windows, 
and sternly inquired: 

“ Is that woman sick ? Why don’t somebody see 
to her?” 

It was true that the culprit, overcome by the heat 
of the room, the excitement of the narrative, and 
possibly certain ancient and fish-like odors connected 
with the marine specimens, had fainted a little ; but 
was speedily recovered by the usual remedies, promi¬ 
nent among which in those days is a disinclination to 
have one’s crimps spoiled by the application of water ; 
and the incident was made more memorable by the 
valedictory of the hostess : 

“ Now, if an}r of you want to come in again while 
you stay on the island you can, without paying any¬ 
thing ; and if I don’t remember you, just say, ‘ I was 
here the day the woman fainted,’ and I shall know 
it’s all right.” And we heard that the experiment 
was tried and succeeded. 

As the party left the house the senor lingered to 
say: “ We are going up to the old windmill, Aunty. 
Didn’t it belong to your family once?” 

“ I should say it did, Sammy. They wanted a 
windmill and didn’t know how to make one: and 
they got an off-islander, name of Wilbur, to make it, 
and like fools gave him the money beforehand. He 
went back to the continent for something—nails may¬ 
be, or maybe idees—and carried the money with him ; 
some pirate or other got wind of it, and the first 
thing they knew down here, the man was robbed and 
murdered there on Cape Cod. That didn’t put up 
the windmill though, and the women had got almost 
tired grinding their samp and meal in those old stone 


mortars, or even a handmill; so some of the folks 
spoke to my grandfather, Elisha Macy, about it, and 
he thought it over, and finally went to bed and dreamed 
just how to build it, and the next day got up and 
built it. That’s the story of that , my dear.” 

“A regular case of revelation, wasn’t it?” sug¬ 
gested the senor with a twinkle in his eye; to which 
the hostess rather sharply replied: 

“ I don’t profess to know much about revealation, 
and I don’t surmise you know much more, Sammy ; 
but that’s how the windmill was built.” 

History adds another anecdote of the windmill, 
worthy to be preserved for its Nantucket flavor. 
Eighty-two years from its marvelous inception, the 
mill had grown so old and infirm that its owners con¬ 
cluded to sell it for lumber if need be. A meeting 
was called, and Jared Gardner, the man who was 
supposed to be wisest in mills of any on the island, 
was invited to attend, and succinctly asked by Syl- 
vanus Macy— 

“Jared, what will thee give for the mill without 
the stones ? ” 

“ Not one penny, Sylvanus,” replied Jared as suc¬ 
cinctly ; and the other— 

“ What will thee give for it as it stands, Jared ? ” 

“ I don’t feel to want it at any price, friend,” 
replied Jared indifferently. 

The mill-owners consulted, and presently returned 
to the charge with— 

“ Jared, thee must make us an offer.” 

“ Well, then, twenty dollars for firewood, Syl¬ 
vanus.” 

The offer was accepted immediately; the shrewd 
Jared did not burn his mill, even to roast a suckling 
pig; but repaired and used it to his own and his 
neighbors’ advantage, until the day of his death. 







LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOUENEY. 

PIONEER FEMALE POET OF AMERICA. 

ES. SIGOUENEY, was among the first, and is the most voluminous 
of all the early female j)oets of America. In fact she has been, up 
to this date, one of the most prolific of all the women writers of our 
country, having published fifty-six volumes of poetry and prose, the 
first appearing in 1815, and the last in 1863, fifty-eight years later. 
Her most successful efforts are her occasional poems, which abound 
in passages of earnest, well expressed thought, and exhibit in their graver moods 
characteristics of a mind trained by exercise in self-knowledge and self-control. 
Her writings possess energy and variety, while her wide and earnest sympathy with 
all topics of friendship and philanthropy was always at the service of those interests. 
Mr. Edward H. Everett in a review of Mrs. Sigourney’s works declared : “ They 

express with great purity and evident sincerity the tender affections which are so 
natural to the female heart and the lofty aspirations after a higher and better state 
of being which constitute the truly ennobling and elevating principles in art as well 
as in nature. Love and religion are the unvarying elements of her song. If her 
power of expression were equal to the purity and elevation of her habits of thought 
and feeling, she would be a female Milton or a Christian Pindar.” Continuing he 
says : “ Though she does not inherit 

‘ The force and ample pinion that the Theban eagles bear, 

Sailing with supreme dominion through the liquid vaults of air,’ 

she nevertheless manages language with an ease and elegance and that refined 
felicity of expression, which is the principal charm in poetry. In blank verse she 
is very successful. The poems that she has written in this measure have much of 
the manner of Wordsworth, and may be nearly or quite as highly relished by liis 
admirers.” 

To the above eminent critical estimate of Mrs. Sigourney’s writings it is unneces¬ 
sary to add further comment. The justice of the praise bestowed upon her is 
evinced by the fact that she has acquired a wider and more pervading reputation 
than many of her more modern sisters in the realm of poesy, but it is evident that, of 
late years, her poetry has not enjoyed the popular favor which it had prior to 1860. 

Lydia Huntley was the only child of her parents, and was born at Norwich, 
Connecticut, September 1st, 1791. Her father was a man of worth and benevolence 
and had served in the revolutionary struggle which brought about the independence 

252 


































LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 


253 


of America. Of the precocity of the child Duyckinck says: “She could read 
fluently at the age of three and composed simple verses at seven, smooth in rhythm 
and of an invariable religious sentiment.” Her girlhood life was quiet and unevent¬ 
ful She received the best educational advantages which her neighborhood and the 
society of Madam Lathrop, the widow of Dr. Daniel Lathrop, of Hartford, could 
bestow. In 1814, when twenty-three years of age, Miss Huntley was induced to 
take a select school at Hartford, and removed to that city, where the next year, in 
1815, her first book, “ Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse,” was published. The 
prose essays are introduced by the remark: “They are addressed to a number of 
young ladies under my care,” and the writer throughout the volume seems to have 
had her vocation as a teacher in view. In the summer of 1819 Miss Huntley be¬ 
came the wife of Mr. Charles Sigourney, an educated gentleman and a merchant 
of Hartford. In 1822 a historical poem in five cantos, entitled “Traits of the 
Aborigines,” was published, and about the same time a London publisher made a 
miscellaneous collection of her verses and published them under the title of “Lays 
from the West,” a compliment of no small moment to an American poetess. Sub¬ 
sequent volumes came in rapid succession, among them being “Sketch of Con¬ 
necticut Forty Years Since,” “Letters to Young Ladies” and “Letters to Mothers,” 
“ Poetry for Children,” “ Zinzendorf and Other Poems,” the last named appearing 
in 1836. It introduces us to the beautiful valley of Wyoming, paying an eloquent 
tribute to its scenery and historic fame, and especially to the missionary Zinzendorf, 
a noble self-sacrificing missionary among the Indians of the Wyoming Valley. The 
picture is a very vivid one. The poem closes with the departure of Zinzendorf 
from the then infant city of Philadelphia, extols him for his missionary labor, and 
utters a stirring exhortation to Christian union. In 1841 “Pocahontas and Other 
Poems ” was issued by a New York publisher. Pocahontas is one of her longest 
and most successful productions, containing fifty-six stanzas of nine lines each, 
opening with a picture of the vague and shadowy repose of nature as her imagina¬ 
tion conceived it in the condition of the new world prior to its discovery. The 
landing at Jamestown and the subsequent events that go to make up the thrilling story 
of Pocahontas follow in detail. This is said to be the best of the many poetical 
compositions of which the famous daughter of Powhatan has been the subject. 

In 1840 Mrs. Sigourney made a tour of Europe, and on her return in 1842 pub¬ 
lished a volume of recollections in prose and poetry of famous and picturesque 
scenes and hospitalities received. The title of the book was “Pleasant Memories 
of Pleasant Lands.” During her stay in Europe there were also published two 
volumes of her works in London, and tokens of kindness and esteem greeted the 
author from various distinguished sources. Among others was a splendid diamond 
bracelet from the Queen of France. Other volumes of her works appeared in 1846 
and 1848. Prominent among the last works of her life was “The Faded Hope,” a 
touching and beautiful memento of her severe bereavment in the death of her only 
son, which occurred in 1850. “Past Meridian” is also a graceful volume of prose 
sketches. 

Mrs. Sigourney died at Hartford, Connecticut, June 10, 1865, when seventy-three 
years of age. 


254 


LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 


COLUMBUS. 


T. STEPHEN’S cloistered ball was proud 
In learning’s pomp that day, 

For there a robed and stately crowd 
Pressed on in long array. 

A mariner with simple chart 
Confronts that conclave high, 

While strong ambition stirs his heart, 

And burning thoughts of wonder part 
From lips and sparkling eye. 



Courage, thou Genoese ! Old Time 
Thy splendid dream shall crown, 

Yon Western Hemisphere sublime, 
Where unshorn forests frown, 

The awful Andes’ cloud-wrapt brow, 

The Indian hunter’s bow, 

Bold streams untamed by helm or prow, 
And rocks of gold and diamonds, tliou 
To thankless Spain shalt show. 


What hath he said ? With frowning face, 
In whispered tones they speak, 

And lines upon their tablets trace, 

Which flush each ashen cheek; 

The Inquisition’s mystic doom 
Sits on their brows severe, 

And bursting forth in visioned gloom, 

Sad heresy from burning tomb 
Groans on the startled ear. 


Courage, World-finder ! Thou hast need 1 
In Fates’ unfolding scroll, 

Dark woes, and ingrate wrongs I read, 
That rack the noble soul. 

On ! on ! Creation’s secrets probe, 

Then drink thy cup of scorn, 

And wrapped in Caesar’s robe, 

Sleep like that master of the globe, 

All glorious,—yet forlorn. 


O* 


THE ALPINE FLOWERS. 


EEK dwellers mid yon terror stricken cliffs ! 
With brows so pure, and incense breathing 
lips, 

Whence are ye ? Did some white winged 
messenger 

On Mercy’s missions trust your timid germ 
To the cold cradle of eternal snows ? 

Or, breathing on the callous icicles, 

Did them with tear drops nurse ye ?— 

—Tree nor shrub 

Dare that drear atmosphere ; no polar pine 
Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand. 

Leaning vour cheeks against the thick ribbed ice, 
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him 



Who bids you bloom unblanched amid the waste 
Of 1 desolation. Man, who, panting, toils 
O’er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge 
Of yawning gulfs, o’er which the headlong plunge 
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, 

And marks ye in your placid loveliness— 

Fearless, yet frail—and, clasping his chill hands, 
Blesses your pencilled beauty. Mid the pomp 
Of mountain summits rushing on the sky, 

And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, 

He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, 
Inhales your spirit from the frost winged gale 
And freer dreams of heaven. 




NIAGARA. 



LOW on, for ever, in thy glorious robe 
Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on 
Unfathomed and resistless. God hath set 
His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud 
Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give 
Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him 
Eternally—bidding the lip of man 
Keep silence—and upon thy rocky altar pour 
Incense of awe struck praise. Ah ! who can dare 
To lift the insect trump of earthly hope, 


Or love, or sorrow, mid the peal sublime 
Of thy tremendous hymn ? Even Ocean shrinks 
Back from thy brotherhood : and all his waves 
Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem 
To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall 
His wearied billows from their vexing play, 

And lull them to a cradle calm: but thou, 

With everlasting, undecaying tide, 

Dost rest not, night or day. The morning stars, 
When first they sang o’er young Creation’s birth, 























LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 


2 56 


Heard thy deep anthem ; and those wrecking fires, 
That wait the archangel’s signal to dissolve 
This solid earth, shall find Jehovah’s name 
Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears, 

Of thine unending volume. Every leaf, 

That lifts itself within thy wide domain, 

Doth gather greenness from thy living spray, 

Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo ! yon birds 
Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing 
Amid thy mist and foam. Tis meet for them 
To touch thy garment’s hem, and lightly stir 
The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath, 

For they may sport unharmed amid the cloud, 

Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven, 


Without reproof. But as for us, it seems 
Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak 
Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint 
Thy glorious features with our pencil’s point, 
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song, 

Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul 
A wondering witness of thy majesty, 

But as it presses with delirious joy 
To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step, 
And tame its rapture, with the humbling view 
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand 
In the dread presence of the Invisible, 

As if to answer to its God through thee. 


-•O* 


DEATH OF AN INFANT. 


EATH found strange beauty on that polished 
brow 

And dashed it out. There was a tint of 
rose 

On cheek and lip. He touched the veins with ice 
And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes 
There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt 
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence 
Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound 



The silken fringes of those curtaining lids 
Forever. There had been a murmuring sound 
With which the babe would claim its mother’s ear, 
Charming her even to tears. The Spoiler set 
His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile 
So fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow, 

Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not stea* 
The signet ring of heaven. 


-♦O* 


A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD’S GRAVE. 


jjjjMrjf BUTTERFLY basked on a baby’s grave, 
Where a lily had chanced to grow ; 

“ Why art thou here, with thy gaudy dye, 
When she of the blue and sparkling eye 
Must sleep in the churchyard low ?” 


Then it lightly soared through the sunny air. 

And spoke from its shining track : 

“ I was a worm till I won my wings, 

And she whom thou mourn’st like a seraph sings^ 
Wouldst thou call the blest one back ?” 





















ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 


AUTHOR OF “ THE SINLESS CHILD.” 

T was in the year 1841 that a poetic Romance of several episodes, 
written in ballad style and entitled “ The Sinless Child,” was pub¬ 
lished in the Southern Literary Messenger and brought its author, a 
woman of thirty-five years, into general prominence, and gained for 
her an enviable position which she ever after maintained and forti¬ 
fied with a series of the finest sonnets which the literature of our 
country affords. “ Her productions,” says Reade, “ are characterized rather by a 
passionate and lofty imagination, than by fancy, and a subtle vein of philosophy 
more than sentiment, though in the latter she is by no means deficient.” 

The maiden name of this lady was Prince. She is descended from old Puritan 
stock on both sides, and was born in Cumberland, near Portland, Maine, on the 
twelfth day of August, 1806. At an early age Miss Prince was married to Mr. 
Seba Smith, a newspaper editor whom she assisted in his editorial work. Mr. 
Smith, himself, was a man of considerable literary attainment, who, under the nom 
de plume of “ Jack Downing,” obtained a national reputation. He is also the 
author of “ Powhattan ; a metrical romance,” and several shorter poems which 
appeared in the periodicals of the day. His magazine tales and essays were col- 
lected in 1850 and published under the title of “ Down East.” 

Like most young women writers of that day, Mrs. Smith contributed her early 
productions to various periodicals, anonymously. It was not until her husband 
suffered business disaster that she commenced the open profession of authorship as a 
means of support for her family. Her first published work “ Riches Without 
Wings” appeared in 1838; “The Sinless Child and other poems” was collected 
and issued in book form in New York, in 1841. In 1842, Mrs. Smith and her 
liusband removed to New York where they have afterwards resided and the same 
year she published a novel entitled “The Western Captive” and also a fanciful 
prose tale “ The Salamander; a Legend for Christmas.” 

Mrs. Smith is also the author of “ The Roman Tribute, a tragedy in five acts,” 
founded on the exemption of Constantinople from destruction by a tribute paid by 
Theodosius to the conquering general, Attila. She is also the author of a tragedy 
entitled “ Jacob Leisler,” which is founded upon a well known dramatic incident 
of the colonial history of New York. Both of these plays enjoyed in their day 
popular favor upon the stage. In 1847, she published “ Woman and her needs,” 
and in 1852, “ Hints on Dress and Beauty.” Subsequent to these came “ The Bald 

256 
















































lydmH s/coumey 


WOMEN POE 















































































































ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 


257 


Eagle ; or the last of the Eamapaughs ; ” “ The News Boy ;” “ Sagamor of Saco 
“ The Two Wives ; ” “ Kitty Howard’s Journal,” and “ Destiny, a Tragedy.” 

Besides the above volumes, Mrs. Smith was the author of much fugitive verse 
and was also a liberal contributor of the current magazines of her day. The 
varied and peculiar merits of this author will appear to the reader of her writings, 
who must be impressed that in the drama, in the sonnet and in miscellaneous poems 
of imagination and fancy, she has vindicated her right to a place among the first 
poets of her sex, while her prose writings, though not largely read at this time, are 
characterized by the same subtle insight, analysis and delicacy of treatment which 
mark her poetry. 

— »o+ - 


EXTRACTS FROM “THE SINLESS CHILD.” 


It is difficult to select from a poem of which the parts make one harmonious whole ; hut the history of 
“The Sinless Child ” is illustrated all through with panel pictures which are scarcely less effective when sep¬ 
arated from their series than when combined, and the reader will be gratified with a few of those which 
serve to exhibit the author’s graceful play of fancy, and the pure vein of poetic sentiment as well as her 
manner and style in treating this masterpiece of its author. 

THE STEP-MOTHER. 


raja] OU speak of Hobert’s second wife, 

W fcQJ A lofty dame and bold : 

I like not her forbidding air, 

And forehead high and cold. 

The orphans have no cause for grief, 

She dare not give it now, 

Though nothing but a ghostly fear 
Her heart of pride could bow. 

One night the boy his mother called: 

They heard him weeping say— 

“ Sweet mother, kiss poor Eddy’s cheek, 
And wipe his tears away!” 

Red grew the lady’s brow with rage, 
And yet she feels a strife 
Of anger and of terror too, 

At thought of that dead wife. 

Wild roars the wind, the lights burn blue, 
The watch-dog howls with fear; 

Loud neighs the steed from out the stall: 

What from is gliding near ? 

No latch is raised, no step is heard, 

But a phantom fills the space— 

A sheeted spectre from the dead, 

With cold and leaden face ! 


(FROM “ THE SINLESS CHILD.”) 

What boots it that no other eye 
Beheld the shade appear? 

The guilty lady’s guilty soul 
Beheld it plain and clear ! 

It slowly glides within the room, 

And sadly looks around— 

And stooping, kissed her daughter’s cheek 
With lips that gave no sound ! 

Then softly on the stepdame’s arm 
She laid a death-cold hand, 

Yet it hath scorched within the flesh 
Like to a burning brand ; 

And gliding on with noiseless foot, 

O’er winding stair and hall, 

She nears the chamber where is heard 
Her infant’s trembling call. 

She smoothed the pillow where he lay, 

She warmly tucked the bed, 

She wiped his tears, and stroked the curls 
That clustered round his head. 

The child, caressed, unknowing fear, 

Hath nestled him to rest; 

The mother folds her wings beside— 

The mother from the blest! 


GUARDIAN ANGELS. 

ITH downy pinion they enfold 

The heart surcharged with wo, 

And fan with balmy wing the eye 
Whence floods of sorrow flow ; 

They bear, in golden censers up, 

That sacred gift a tear—. 

By which is registered the griefs 
Hearts may have suffered here. 

17 P H. 



-♦O*- 

(FROM “ THE SINLESS CHILD.”) 

No inward pang, no yearning love 
Is lost to human hearts— 

No anguish that the spirit feels, 
When bright-winged Hope departs. 
Though in the mystery of life 
Discordant powers prevail; 

That life itself be weariness, 

And sympathy may fail: 

























258 


ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 


Yet all becomes a discipline, 

To lure us to the sky; 

And angels bear the good it brings 
With fostering care on high. 

Though human hearts may weary grow, 
And sink to toil-spent sleep, 

And we are left in solitude 
And agony to weep: 


Yet they with ministering zeal 
The cup of healing bring, 

And bear our love and gratitude 
Away, on heavenward wing; 

And thus the inner life is wrought, 
The blending earth and heaven— 
The love more earnest in its glow 
Where much has been forgiven ! 


THE BROOK. 


HITHER away, thou merry Brook, 
Whither away so fast, 

With dainty feet through the meadow 
green, 

And a smile as you hurry past ? ” 

The Brook leaped on in idle mirth, 

And dimpled with saucy glee; 

The daisy kissed in lovingness, 

And made with the willow free. 

I heard its laugh adown the glen, 

And over the rocky steep, 

Away where the old tree's roots were bare 
In the waters dark and deep; 

The sunshine flashed upon its face, 

And played with flickering leaf— 

Well pleased to dally in its path, 

Though the tarrying were brief. 

“ Now stay thy feet, oh restless one, 

Where droops the spreading tree, 

And let thy liquid voice reveal 
Thy story unto me.” 

The flashing pebbles lightly rung, 

As the gushing music fell, 

The chiming music of the brook, 

From out the woody dell. 



“ I leaped me down: my rainbow robe 
Hung shivering to the sight, 

And the thrill of freedom gave to me 
New impulse of delight. 

A joyous welcome the sunshine gave, 

The bird and the swaying tree; 

The spear-like grass and blossoms start 
With joy at sight of me. 

“The swallow comes with its bit of clay, 
When the busy Spring is here. 

And twittering bears the moistened gift 
A nest on the eaves to rear; 

The twinkling feet of flock and herd 
Have trodden a path to me, 

And the fox and the squirrel come to drink 
In the shade of the alder-tree. 

“ The sunburnt child, with its rounded foot, 
Comes hither with me to play, 

And I feel the thrill of his lightsome heart 
As he dashes the merry spray. 

I turn the mill with answering glee, 

As the merry spokes go round, 

And the gray rock takes the echo up, 
Rejoicing in the sound. 


“ My mountain home was bleak and high, 
A rugged spot and drear, 

With searching wind and raging storm, 
And moonlight cold and clear. 

I longed for a greeting cheery as mine, 
For a fond and answering look 
But none were in that solitude 
To bless the little brook. 


“ The old man bathes his scattered locks, 
And drops me a silent tear— 

For he sees a wrinkled, careworn face 
Look up from the waters clear. 

Then I sing in his ear the very song 
He heard in years gone by; 

The old man’s heart is glad again, 

And a joy lights up his eye.” 


“ The blended hum of pleasant sounds 
Came up from the vale below, 

And I wished that mine were a lowly lot, 
To lapse, and sing as I go; 

That gentle things, with loving eyes, 
Along my path should glide, 

And blossoms in their loveliness 
Come nestling to my side. 


Enough, enough, thou homily brook ! 

I’ll treasure thy teachings well, 

And I will yield a heartfelt tear 
Thy crystal drops to swell; 

Will bear like thee a kindly love 
For the lowly things of earth, 
Remembering still that high and pure 
Is the home of the spirit’s birth. 









ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 


259 


THE APRIL RAIN. 


*3 HE April rain—the April rain— 

I hear the pleasant sound ; 

Now soft and still, like little dew, 
Now drenching all the ground. 
Pray tell me why an April shower 
Is pleasanter to see 
Than falling drops of other rain ? 
I’m sure it is to me. 

I wonder if ’tis really so— 

Or only hope the while, 

That tells of swelling buds and flowers, 
And Summer’s coming smile. 

Whate’er it is, the April shower 
Makes me a child again ; 

I feel a rush of youthful blood 
Come with the April rain. 

And sure, were I a little bulb 
Within the darksome ground, 

I should love to hear the April rain 
So gently falling round ; 

Or any tiny flower were I, 

By Nature swaddled up, 

How pleasantly the April shower 
Would bathe my hidden cup ! 

The small brown seed, that rattled down 
On the cold autumnal earth, 

Is bursting from its cerements forth, 
Rejoicing in its birth. 


The slender spears of pale green grass 
Are smiling in the light, 

The clover opes its folded leaves 
As if it felt delight. 

The robin sings on the leafless tree, 

And upward turns his eye, 

As loving much to see the drops 
Come filtering from the sky; 

No doubt he longs the bright green leaves 
About his home to see, 

And feel the swaying summer winds 
Play in the full-robed tree. 

The cottage door is open wide, 

And cheerful sounds are heard, 

The young girl sings at the merry wheel 
A song like the wilding bird ; 

The creeping child by the old, worn sill 
Peers out with winking eye, 

And his ringlets rubs with chubby hand, 
As the drops come pattering by. 

With bounding heart beneath the sky, 
The truant boy is out, 

And hoop and ball are darting by 
With many a merry shout. 

Ay, sport away, ye joyous throng— 

For yours is the April day; 

I love to see your spirits dance 
In your pure and healthful play. 


FLOWERS. 


(FROM 11 THE SINLESS CHILD.”) 



ACH tiny leaf became a scroll 
Inscribed with holy truth, 

A lesson that around the heart 
Should keep the dew of youth ; 
Bright missals from angelic throngs 
In every by-way left— 

How were the earth of glory shorn, 
Were it of flowers bereft! 


They tremble on the Alpine height; 

The fissured rock they press ; 

The desert wild, with heat and sand, 
Shares, too, their blessedness : 

And wheresoe’er the weary heart 
Turns in its dim despair, 

The meek-eyed blossom upward looks, 
Inviting it to prayer. 




EROS AND 

IS said sweet Psyche gazed one night 
On Cupid’s sleeping face— 

Gazed in her fondness on the wight 
In his unstudied grace: 

But he, bewildered by the glare 
Of light at such a time, 

Fled from the side of Psyche there 
As from a thing of crime. 


ANTEROS. 

Ay, weak the fable—false the ground— 
Sweet Psyche veiled her face— 

Well knowing Love, if ever found, 

Will never leave his place. 

Unfound as yet, and weary grown, 

She had mistook another: 

’Twas but Love’s semblance she had found— 
Not Eros, but his brother! 



























LUCY LAECOM. 

AUTHOR OF “ HANNAH BINDING SHOES.” 

AD we visited the cotton mills of Lowell, Massachusetts, sixty years 
ago, we perhaps would not have noticed anything peculiar or differ¬ 
ent from other girls in the busy little body known as Lucy Larcom. 
She had left school in her early teens to help support the family by 
serving as an ordinary operative in a cotton factory. Yet this is 
where Lucy Larcom did her first work; and to the experiences she 
gained there can be traced the foundation of the literature—both prose and poetry 
—with which she has delighted and encouraged so many readers. 

Lucy Larcom was born in Beverly, Massachusetts, in 1826. Her father, a sea 
captain, died while she was a child, and her mother removed with her several chil¬ 
dren to Lowell, Massachusetts. For a while Lucy attended the public schools and 
at the age of ten years showed a talent for writing verses. In the cotton mill, she 
tells us, her first work was “doffing and replacing the bobbins in the machine. 
Next,” she says, “I entered the spinning-room, then the dressing-room, where I had 
a place beside pleasant windows looking toward the river. Later I was promoted 
to the cloth-room, where I had fewer hours of confinement, without the noisy 
machinery, and it was altogether neater.” The last two years, of her eight years’ work 
in the mill, she served as book-keeper, and, during her leisure hours, pursued her 
studies in mathematics, grammar and English and German literature. 

The female operatives in the Lowell mills published a little paper entitled 
“ Offering,” and it was to this that Miss Larcom contributed her first literary pro¬ 
duction, which was in the shape of a poem entitled “The Biver;” and many of 
her verses and essays, both grave and gay, may be found in the old files of this 
paper. Her first volume, “Similitudes,” was compiled from essays which appeared 
originally in “Offering.” Since then her name has found an honored place among 
the women writers of America. Among her early and best poems are “Hannah 
Binding Shoes” and “The Eose Enthroned,” the latter being Miss Larcom’s first 
contribution to the “Atlantic Monthly.” She did not sign her name to the contri¬ 
bution and it was of such merit that one of the reviewers attributed it to the poet 
Emerson. Both Mr. Lowell, the editor of “The Atlantic Monthly,” and the poet, 
Whittier, to whose papers she also contributed, praised her ability. Miss Larcom 
studied at Monticello Female Seminary, Illinois, and afterwards taught in some of 
the leading female schools in her native State. In 1859 appeared her book entitled 
“Ships in the Mist and Other Stories,” and in 1866 was published “Breathings of 

260 _ 
































LUCY LARCOM. 


261 


a-Better Life.” From 1866 to 1874 slie was editor of “Our Young Folks,” and in 
1875 “An Idyl of Work, a Story in Verse,” appeared. In 1880 “Wild Boses of 
Cape Ann and Other Poems” was published, and in 1881 “Among Lowell Mill 
Girls” appeared. In 1885 her poetical works were gathered and published in one 
volume. Of late, Miss Larcom’s writings have assumed deeply religious tones in 
which the faith of her whole life finds ample expression. This characteristic is 
strongly noticeable in “Beckonings” (1886), and especially so in her last two books 
“As It Is In Heaven” (1891) and “The Unseen Friend” (1892), both of which 
embody her maturest thought on matters concerning the spiritual life. 

One of the most admirable characteristics of Miss Larcom’s life and her writings 
is the marked spirit of philanthropy pervading every thing she did. She was in 
sentiment and practically the working woman’s friend. She came from among them, 
had shared their toils, and the burning and consuming impulse of her life was to 
better their condition. In this, she imitated the spirit of Him, who, being lifted up, 
would draw all men after Him. 


HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 



OOR lone Hannah, 

Sitting at the window, binding shoes! 
Faded, wrinkled, 

Sitting stitching, in a mournful muse ! 
Bright-eyed beauty once was she, 
When the bloom was on the tree: 
Spring and winter 

Hannah’s at the window, binding shoes. 


Not a neighbor 

Passing nod or answer will refuse 
To her whisper, 

“ Is there from the fishers any news? ” 
Oh, her heart’s adrift with one 
On an endless voyage gone! 

Night and morning 

Hannah’s at the window, binding shoes. 


May is passing: 

Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos. 
Hannah shudders, 

For the mild south-wester mischief brews. 
Bound the rocks of Marblehead, 
Outward bound, a schooner sped: 
Silent, lonesome, 

Hannah’s at the window, binding shoes. 
’Tis November. 

Now no tears her wasted cheek bedews. 

From Newfoundland 
Not a sail returning will she lose, 
Whispering hoarsely, “ Fisherman, 
Have you, have you heard of Ben ? ” 
Old with watching, 

Hannah’s at the window, binding shoes. 


Fair young Hannah 
Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly woos; 
Hale and clever, 

For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
May-day skies are all aglow, 

And the waves are laughing so! 

For the wedding 

Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 


Twenty winters 

Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views. 

Twenty seasons;— 

Never has one brought her any news. 

Still her dim eyes silently 
Chase the white sail o’er the sea: 
Hopeless, faithless, 

Hannah’s at the window, binding shoes. 















ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY. 


“ THE SISTER SPIRITS OF POESY.” 

would be difficult to treat the two poetic Cary sisters separately. 
Their work began, progressed through life and practically ended 
together. Few persons have written under the circumstances which 
at first appeared so disadvantageous. They had neither education 
nor literary friends, nor was their early lot cast in a region of literary 
culture—for they were reared in Cincinnati, Ohio, during the forma¬ 
tive period of that Western country. But surely in the wild hills and valleys of 
their native West, they found 

“ Tongues in trees, books in running brooks, 

Sermons in stones, and good in everything.” 



Alice Cary was born in Mount Healthy, near Cincinnati, April 20, 1820, and 
her sister Phoebe at the same place four years later. The two sisters studied at home 
together and, when eighteen years old, Alice began to write poems and sketches of 
rural life under the nom de plume of Patty Lee, which attracted considerable atten¬ 
tion and displayed an ability which elicited encouragement from the editors of the 
periodicals to which she contributed. In the mean time, Phoebe Cary, following her 
sister’s example, began to contribute, and, in 1850, the two sisters published their 
first volume of poems in Philadelphia. A volume of prose sketches entitled 
“Clover Nook, or Recollections of our Neighborhood in the West,” by Alice Cary 
followed in 1851. In 1852, the Cary sisters removed to New York city where they 
chiefly resided during the remainder of their lives, returning occasionally to their 
early farm home. For some years they held weekly receptions in New York, which 
were attended by leading artistic and literary people. They earned by their pens— 
pure and womanly pens—sufficient to provide a competence for all their wants. 
They gathered a library, rich in standard works, to gratify their refined tastes and 
did much to relieve the needy with their charity. In 1853, Alice Cary issued a 
second series of her “Clover Nook Papers” and a third gleaning from the same 
field appeared in 1855, entitled “Clover Nook Children,” for the benefit of her more 
youthful readers. During the prolific years, from 1852 to 1855, she also published 
“Lyra and other Poems,” followed by “Hagar, a Story of To-day,” “Married, Not 
Mated,” and “Hollywood,” a collection of poems. In 1854, Phoebe Cary, also, 
published “Poems and Parodies.” In 1859 appeared her “Pictures of Country 
Life,” a series of tales, and “The Bishop’s Son,” a novel. In 1867, appeared her 
























ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY. 


4 


263 


“Snowberries, a book lor young folks. In 1866, Alice also published a volume 
entitled “ Ballads, Lyrics and Hymns,” which is a standard selection of her poetry 
and contains some of the sweetest minor poems in the language. Alice's “The 
Lovers Diary” appeared in 1868. It begins with the poem “Dreamland” and 
ranges with a series of exquisite lyrics of love through all the phases of courtship 
to married life. This was the last of her works published during her lifetime. 
During the same year (1868), Phoebe published the “Poems of Faith, Hope and 
Love,” a worthy companion volume to her sister’s works, and in 1869 she aided her 
pastor, Chas. F. Deems, in editing “Hymns for All Christians.” 

In comparing the two sisters, it is noticeable that the poems of Alice are more 
thoughtful and more melodiously expressed. They are also marked with a stronger 
originality and a more vivid imagination. In disposition, Alice was pensive and 
tender, while Phoebe was witty and gay. Alice was strong in energy and patience 
and bore the chief responsibility of their household, allowing her sister, who was 
less passive and feminine in temperament, to consult her moods in writing. The 
disparity in the actual intellectual productions of the two sisters in the same 
number of years is the result, not so much of the mental inequality as of the 
superior energy, industry, and patience of the elder. 

The considerate love and delicacy with which Alice and Phoebe Cary treated 
each other plainly indicated that they were one in spirit through life, and in death 
they were not long separated. Alice died at her home in New York City, February 
12, 1871, in her fifty-first year. Phoebe, in sorrow over this bereavement, wrote 
the touching verses entitled “Light,” and in confidence said to a friend: “Alice, 
when she was here, always absorbed me, and she absorbs me still. I feel her con¬ 
stantly drawing me.” And so it seemed in reality, for, on the thirty-first day of 
July, six months after Alice Cary was laid to rest in Greenwood Cemetery, New 
York, Phoebe died at Newport, Rhode Island, whence her remains were removed 
and laid by her sister’s side. 

The two kindred sisters, so long associated on earth, were re-united. The 
influence they have left behind them, embalmed in their hymns of praiseful worship, 
their songs of love and of noblest sentiment, and their stories of happy childhood 
and innocent manhood and womanhood, will long remain to bless the earth and con¬ 
stitute a continual incense to their memory. 

Besides the published works named above, both Alice and Phoebe left at their 
death uncollected poems enough to give each name two added volumes. Alice also 
left the manuscript of a completed novel. 


264 


ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY. 


PICTURES OF MEMORY, (alice cary.) 


MONG the beautiful pictures 

That hang on Memory’s wall, 

Is one of a dim old forest, 

That seemeth best of all: 

Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 

Dark with the mistletoe; 

Not for the violets golden 

That sprinkle the vale below ; 

Not for the milk-white lilies, 

That lead from the fragrant hedge, 
Coqueting all day with the sunbeams, 

And stealing their golden edge ; 

Not for the vines on the upland 
Where the bright red berries rest, 

Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip, 
It seemed to me the best. 

I once had a little brother, 

With eyes that were dark and deep— 

In the lap of that old dim forest 
He lieth in peace asleep: 


Light as the down of the thistle, 

Free as the winds that blow, 

We roved there the beautiful summers, 
The summers of long ago ; 

But his feet on the hills grew weary, 
And, one of the autumn eves, 

I made for my little brother 
A bed of the yellow leaves. 

Sweetly his pale arms folded 
My neck in a meek embrace, 

As the light of immortal beauty 
Silently covered his face: 

And when the arrows of sunset 
Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 

He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 

Asleep by the gates of light. 
Therefore, of all the pictures 
That hang on Memory’s wall, 

The one of the dim old forest 
Seemeth the best of all. 



NOBILITY. (ALICE CARY.) 


ILDA is a lofty lady, 

Very proud is she— 

I am but a simple herdsman 
Dwelling by the sea. 

Hilda hath a spacious palace, 

Broad, and white, and high ; 
Twenty good dogs guard the portal— 
Never house had I. 

Hilda hath a thousand meadows— 
Boundless forest lands: 

She hath men and maids for service— 

I have but my hands. 

The sweet summer’s ripest roses 
Hilda’s cheeks outvie— 

Queens have paled to see her beauty— 
But my beard have I. 



Hilda from her palace windows 
Looketh down on me, 

Keeping with my dove-brown oxen 
By the silver sea. 

When her dulcet harp she playeth, 
Wild birds singing nigh, 

Cluster, listening, by her white hands—; 
But my reed have I. 

I am but a simple herdsman, 

With nor house nor lands; 

She hath men and maids for service—- 
I have but my hands. 

And yet what are all her crimsons 
To my sunset sky— 

With my free hands and my manhood 
Hilda’s peer am I. 


-•O* 


THE GRAY SWAN, (alice cary.) 


( From, the Poetical Works of Alice and Phoebe Cary , 1876.) 



tell me, sailor, tell me true, 

Is my little lad, my Elihu, 
A-sailing with your ship ? ” 

The sailor’s eyes were dim with dew,— 
“ Your little lad, your Elihu ? ” 

He said with trembling lip,— 

“ What little lad ? what ship ? ” 


“ What little lad ! as if there could be 
Another such an one as he! 

What little lad, do you say ? 
Why, Elihu, that took to the sea 
The moment I put him off my kneef 
It was just the other day 
The Gray Swan sailed away.” 






















ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY. 


365 


“ The other day ? ” the sailor’s eyes 
Stood open with a great surprise,— 

“ The other day ? the Swan ? ” 

His heart began in his throat to rise. 
u Aye, aye, sir, here in the cupboard lies 
The jacket he had on.” 

“ And so your lad is gone ? ” 

“ Gone with the Swan” “ And did she stand 
With her anchor clutching hold of the sand, 

For a month, and never stir ? ” 

“ Why, to be sure ! I’ve seen from the land, 
Like a lover kissing his lady’s hand, 

The wild sea kissing her,— 

A sight to remember, sir.” 

“ But, my good mother, do you know 
All this was twenty years ago ? 

I stood on the Gray Swan's deck, 

And to that lad I saw you throw, 

Taking it off, as it might be, so! 

The kerchief from your neck.” 

“ Aye, and he’ll bring it back ! ” 

“ And did the little lawless lad, 

That has made you sick and made you sad, 

Sail with the Gray Swans crew ? ” 

“ Lawless ! the man is going mad ! 


The best boy mother ever had,— 

Be sure he sailed with the crew ! 

What would you have him do ? ” 

“ And he has never written a line, 

Nor sent you word, nor made you sign 
To say he was alive ! ” 
u Hold ! if twas wrong, the wrong is mine; 
Besides, he may be in the brine, 

And could he write from the grave ? 

Tut, man, what would you have ? ” 

Gone twenty years—a long, long cruise,— 
’Twas wicked thus your love to abuse; 

But if the lad still live, 

And come back home, think you can 
Forgive him ? ” “ Miserable man, 

You’re mad as the sea,—you rave,— 
What have I to forgive? ” 

The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, 

And from within his bosom drew 
The kerchief. She was wild. 

“ My God ! my Father ! is it true ? 

My little lad, my Elihu ! 

My blessed boy, my child ! 

My dead, my living child! ” 




TO THE EVENING ZEPHYR* 


ALICE CARY. 


SIT where the wild-bee is humming, 
And listen in vain for thy song; 
I’ve waited before for thy coming, 
But never, oh, never so long ! 
How oft with the blue sky above us, 

And waves breaking light on the shore, 
Thou, knowing they would not reprove us, 
Hast kissed me a thousand times o’er! 
Alone in the gathering shadows, 

Still waiting, sweet Zephyr, for thee, 



I look for the waves of the meadows, 
And dimples to dot the blue sea. 

The blossoms that waited to greet thee 
With heat of the noontide oppressed, 
Now flutter so light to meet thee, 

Thou’rt coming, I know, from the west. 
Alas ! if thou findest me pouting, 

’Tis only my love that alarms ; 

Forgive, then, I pray thee, my doubting, 
And take me once more to thine arms! 


40 ^ 



YING, still slowly dying, 

As the hours of night rode by, 

She had lain since the light of sunset 
Was red on the evening sky ; 

Till after the middle watches, 

As we softly near her trod, 


DEATH SCENE* 

(PHOEBE CARY.) 

When her soul from its prison fetters 
Was loosed by the hand of God. 


One moment her pale lips trembled 
With the triumph she might not tell, 
As the sight of the life immortal 


* Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 

















266 


ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY. 


On her spirit’s vision fell; 

Then the look of rapture faded, 

And the beautiful smile was faint, 
As that in some convent picture, 

On the face of a dying saint. 

And we felt in the lonesome midnight, 


As we sat by the silent dead, 

What a light on the path going downward 
The feet of the righteous shed ; 

When we thought how with faith unshrinkin 
She came to the Jordan’s tide, 

And taking the hand of the Saviour, 

Went up on the heavenly side. 


MEMORIES* 

(PHOEBE CARY.) 

“ She loved me, but she left me .” 


)RIES on memories ! to my soul again 
There come such dreams of vanished 
love and bliss 

lat my wrung heart, though long inured 
to pain, 

Sinks with the fulness of its wretchedness : 

Thou, dearer far than all the world beside ! 

Thou, who didst listen to my love’s first vow— 
Once I had fondly hoped to call thee bride: 

Is the dream over ? comes that awakening now ? 
And is this hour of wretchedness and tears 
The only guerdon for my wasted years ? 

And I did love thee—when by stealth we met 
In the sweet evenings of that summer time, 

Whose pleasant memory lingers with me yet, 

As the remembrance of a better clime 


Might haunt a fallen angel. And oh, thou— 
Thou who didst turn away and seek to bind 
Thy heart from breaking—thou hast felt ere now 
A heart like thine o’ermastereth the mind : 
Affection’s power is stronger than thy will— 

Ah, thou didst love me, and thou lovest me still. 

My heart could never yet be taught to move 
With the calm even pulses that it should : 
Turning away from those that it should love, 

And loving whom it should not, it hath wooed 
Beauty forbidden—I may not forget; 

And thou, oh thou canst never cease to feel; 
But time, which hath not changed affection yet, 
Hath taught at least one lesson—to conceal; 
So none but thou, who see my smiles, shall know 
The silent bleeding of the heart below. 





“EQUAL TO EITHER FORTUNE.”* 


(PHOEBE CARY.) 


QUAL to either fortune !” This should be 
The motto of the perfect man and true— 
Striving to stem the billow fearlessly, 

And keeping steadily the right in view, 
AVhether it be his lot in life to sail 
Before an adverse or a prosperous gale. 

Man fearlessly his voice for truth should raise, 

When truth would force its way in deed or word; 
AVhether for him the popular voice of praise, 

Or the cold sneer of unbelief is heard: 

Like the First Martyr, when his voice arose 
Distinct above the hisses of his foes. 

“ Equal to either fortune,” Heaven designs, 

AVhether his destiny be repose or toil— 

AVhether the sun upon his palace shines, 



Or calls him forth to plant the furrowed soil: 

So shall he find life’s blessings freely strewn 
Around the peasant’s cottage as the throne. 

Man should dare all things which he knows are right, 
And fear to do no act save what is wrong; 

But, guided safely by his inward light, 

And with a permanent belief, and strong, 

In Him who is our Father and our friend, 

He should walk steadfastly unto the end. 

Ready to live or die, even in that day 

AVhich man from childhood has been taught to fear, 
AA 7 hen, putting off its cumbrous weight of clay, 

The spirit enters on a nobler sphere: 

And he will be, whose life was rightly passed, 

“ Equal to either fortune ” at the last. 


* Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 


















ALICE AND PHOEBE CABY. 


267 


LIGHT* 


(PHOEBE CARY.) 

This is one of the last poems. It was written after the death of her sister Alice, in 1871. 



HILE I hid mine eyes, I feared 


The heavens in wrath seemed bowed; 

I look, and the sun with a smile breaks 
forth, 


And a rainbow spans the cloud. 


I thought the winter was here, 

That the earth was cold and bare, 

But I feel the coming of birds and flowers, 
And the spring-time in the air. 


I said that all the lips 

I ever had kissed were dumb ; 

That my dearest ones were dead and gone, 
And never a friend would come. 

But I hear a voice as sweet 

As the fall of summer showers ; 


And the grave that yawned at my very feet 
Is filled to the top with flowers ! 

As if ’t were the midnight hour, 

I sat with gloom opprest; 

When a light was breaking out of the east 
And shining unto the west. 


I heard the angels call 

Across from the beautiful shore ; 
And I saw a look in my darling’s eyes, 
That never was there before. 

Transfigured, lost to me, 

She had slipped from my embrace; 
Now, lo ! I hold her fast once more, 
With the light of God on her face! 


* Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 












LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 

modern poet among American women stands higher in the estimation 
of her literary peers, or in the social scale than does the author of 
“ Bedtime Stories,” “ Some Women’s Hearts,” and “ In the Gar¬ 
den of Dreams.” Mrs. Moulton enjoys the triple distinction of 
being a writer of the most popular stories for children, of popular 
novels for grown people, and of some of the best poetry which any 
woman has contributed to our literature. In herself she presents the conscientious 
poet who writes for the purpose of instructing and benefiting, and, at the same time, 
one whose wares are marketable and popular. Not a few critics have placed her 
sonnets at the head of their kind in America. Her poetry has for its main charac¬ 
teristic a constant but not a rebellious sorrow expressed with such consistent ease and 
melody that the reader is led on with a most pleasurable sensation from stanza to 
stanza and arises from the reading of her verses with a mellower and softer sym¬ 
pathy for his fellow-beings. 

Louise Chandler was born at Pomfret, Connecticut, April 5, 1835, and her educa¬ 
tion was received in that vicinity. Her first book entitled “ This, That and Other 
Poems ” appeared when she was nineteen years of age. It was a girlish miscellany 
and sold remarkably well. After its publication, she passed one year in Miss Wil¬ 
lard’s Seminary at Troy, New York, and it was during her first vacation from this 
school that she met and married the well-known Boston journalist, William Moulton. 
The next year was published “Juno Clifford,” a novel, without her name attached. 
Her next publication, issued in 1859, was a collection of stories under the title of 
“ My Third Book.” Neither of these made a great success, and she published 
nothing more until 1873, when her now famous “ Bedtime Stories for Children ” 
was issued and attracted much attention. She has written five volumes of bright 
tales for children. In 1874 appeared “Some Women’s Hearts” and “Miss Eyre 
from Boston.” After this Mrs. Moulton visited Europe, and out of the memories of 
her foreign travel, she issued in 1881 a book entitled “ Random Rambles,” and 
six years later came “Ours and Our Neighbors,” a book of essays on social subjects, 
and the same year she issued two volumes of poems. In 1889 she published simul¬ 
taneously, in England and America, her most popular work, entitled “ In the 
Garden of Dreams,” which has passed through many editions with increased popu¬ 
larity. Mrs. Moulton has also edited three volumes of the poems of Philip Burke 
Marseton. 

Mrs. Moulton’s residence has been in Boston since 1855, with the exception of 

268 












































LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 


269 


sixteen consecutive summers and autumns which she passed in Europe. In London 
she is especially at home, where she lives surrounded by friends and friendly critics, 
who value both her winning personality and her literary art. She has been through¬ 
out her life a systematic worker, devoting a part of each day to literary labor. 
Aside from her books, she has done much writing for newspapers and periodicals. 
From 1870 to 1876 she was the Boston literary correspondent for the New York 
“ Tribune,” and for nearly five years she wrote a weekly letter reviewing new books 
and literary people for the Boston “ Sunday Herald,” the series of these letters 
closing in December, 1891. 

Mrs. Moulton, while not admitting herself to be a hero worshipper, is full of 
appreciation of the great bygone names of honor, and enjoys with a keen relish the 
memory of the personal friendship she had with such immortals as Whittier, Long¬ 
fellow and Lowell, on this side of the Atlantic, and with Swinburne, Tennyson and 
others, in Europe. 

—•<>•— 


“ IF THERE WERE DREAMS TO SELL.” * 


“ If there were dreams to sell, 

What would you buy?”—B eddoes. 



F there were dreams to sell, 
Do I not know full well 
What I would buy ? 
Hope’s dear delusive spell, 
Its happy tale to tell— 
Joy’s fleeting sigh. 


I would be glad once more— 
Slip through an open door 
Into Life’s glory— 
Keep what I spent of yore, 
Find what I lost before— 
Hear an old story. 


I would he young again— 
Youth’s madding bliss and bane 
I would recapture— 
Though it were keen with pain, 
All else seems void and vain 
To that fine rapture. 


As it of old befell, 

Breaking Death’s frozen spell, 
Love should draw nigh 
If there were dreams to sell, 
Do I not know too well 
What I would buy ? 


-* 0 *- 

WIFE TO HUSBAND.* 


H HEN I am dust, and thou art quick and 

Bethink thee, sometimes, what good days 
we had, 

What happy days, beside the shining seas, 

Or by the twilight fire, in careless ease, 

Reading the rhymes of some old poet lover, 

Or whispering our own love-story over. 

When thou hast mourned for me a seemly space, 

And set another in my vacant place, 

Charmed with her brightness, trusting in her truth, 
Warmed to new life by her beguiling youth. 

Be happy, dearest one, and surely know 
I would not have thee thy life’s joys forego. 


Yet think of me sometimes, where, cold and still, 

I lie, who once was swift to do thy will, 

Whose lips so often answered to thy kiss, 

Who, dying, blessed thee for that bygone bliss: 

I pray thee do not bar my presence quite 
From thy new life, so full of new delight. 

I would not vex thee, waiting by thy side; 

My presence should not chill thy fair young bride ; 
Only bethink thee how alone I lie: 

To die and be forgotten were to die 
A double death ; and I deserve of thee 
Some grace of memory, fair howe’er she be. 


* Copyright, Roberts Bros. 
















270 


LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 


THE LAST GOOD-BYE* 


shall we know it is the last good-bye ? 
The skies will not be darkened in that 
hour, 

No sudden light will fall on leaf or 
flower, 

No single bird will hush its careless cry, 

And you will hold my hands, and smile or sigh 
Just as before. Perchance the sudden tears 


In your dear eyes will answer to my fears; 

But there will come no voice of prophecy: 

No voice to whisper, “ Now, and not again, 

Space for last words, last kisses, and last prayer, 
For all the wild, unmitigated pain 
Of those who, parting clasp hands with despair.” 

“ Who knows?” we say, but doubt and fear remain, 
Would any choose to part thus unaware? 



-•O*— 


NEXT YEAR. 


HE lark is singing gaily in the meadow, the 
sun is rising o’er the dark blue hills; 
But she is gone, the music of whose talk¬ 
ing was sweeter than the voice of 
summer rills. 

Sometimes I see the bluebells of the forest, and think 
of her blue eyes ; 

Sometimes I seem to hear the rustle of her garments : 
’tis but the wind’s low sighs. 

I see the sunbeams trail along the orchard, and fall 
in thought to tangling up her hair ; 

And sometimes round the sinless lips of childhood 
breaks forth a smile, such as she used to wear; 


But never any pleasant thing, around, above us, 
seems to me like her love— 

More lofty than the skies that bend and brighten o’er 
us, more constant than the dove. 

She walks no more beside me in the morning; she 
meets me not on any summer eve ; 

But once at night I heard a low voice calling—“.Oh. 
faithful friend, thou hast not long to grieve!” 

Next year, when larks are singing gaily in the meadow, 
I shall not hear their tone; 

But she in the dim, far-oif country of the stranger 
will walk no more alone. 





MY MOTHER’S PICTURE. 

(FROM “ IN THE GARDEN OF DREAMS.”) 


OW shall I here her placid picture paint 
With touch that shall be delicate, yet sure ? 
Soft hair above a brow so high and pure 
Years have not soiled it with an earthly taint, 
Needing no aureole to prove her saint; 

Firm mind that no temptation could allure; 

Soul strong to do, heart stronger to endure ; 


And calm, sweet lips that uttered no complaint. 

So have I seen her, in my darkest days 

And when her own most sacred ties were riven, 
Walk tranquilly in self-denying ways, 

Asking for strength, and sure it would be given ; 
Filling her life with lowly prayer, high praise— 

So shall I see her, if we meet in heaven. 



•^Copyright, Roberts Bros. 


) 























FRANCES MIRIAM WHITCHER. 

THE “WIDOW BEDOTT” AND “WIDOW SPKIGGINS.” 


was back in the early forties in “Neal’s Gazette” that the “Widow 
Bedott Table Talk ” series of articles began to attract attention, and 
the question arose, Who is the Widow Bedott? for no one knew at 
that time that Mrs. Whitcher was the real author behind this nom- 
de-plume. James Neal himself—the well-known author of “ Char¬ 
coal Sketches” and publisher of the magazine above referred to— 
was so struck with the originality and clearness of the first of the series when sub¬ 
mitted that he sought a correspondence with the author, thinking it was a man, and 
addressed her as “My dear Bedott.” Mrs. Whitcher often insisted that she must 
cease to write, as her humorous sketches were not relished by some of her neighbors 
whom they touched, but Mr. Neal would not hear to it. In a letter of September 
10, 1846, he wrote: “It is a theory of mine that those gifted with truly humorous 
genius like yourself are more useful as moralists, philosophers and teachers than 
whole legions of the gravest preachers. They speak more effectually to the general 
ear and heart, even though they who hear are not aware of the fact that they are 
imbibing wisdom.” Further on he adds: “I would add that Mr. Godey called on 
me to inquire as to the authorship of the “Bedott Papers,” wishing evidently to 
obtain you for a correspondent to the “Ladies’ Book.” 

For richness of humor and masterly handling of the \ ankee dialect, certainly, 
the “Widow Bedott” and the “Widow Spriggins” occupy a unique space in humor¬ 
ous literature, and the influence she has exercised on modern humorists is more in 
evidence than most readers are aware of. Her husband, “Hezekiah Bedott,” is a 
character who will live alongside of “Josiah Allen” as one of the prominent heroes 
of the humorous literature of our country. In fact, no reader of both these authors 
will fail to suspect that Miss Marietta Holley used “Hezekiah” as a model for her 
“Josiah;” while the redoubtable widow herself was enough similiar to “Samantha 
Allen” to have been her natural, as she, perhaps, was her literary, grandmother. 
Nor was Miss Holley alone in following her lead. Ever since the invention of 
“Hezekiah Bedott” by Mrs. Whitcher, an imaginary person of some sort, behind 
whom the author might conceal his own identity, has seemed to be^a necessity to 
our humorists, as witness the noms-de-plume of “Artemus Ward, Josh Bil¬ 
lings,” “Mark Twain,” etc., under which our greatest American humorists have 

written. . 

Mrs. Whitcher was the daughter of Mr. Lewis Berry, and was born at Whitesboro, 

2 L 


































272 


FRANCES MIRIAM WHITCHER. 


New York, 1811, and died there in 1852. As a child she was unusually preco¬ 
cious. Before she learned her letters, even before she was four years old, she was 
making little rhymes and funny stories, some of which are preserved by her rela¬ 
tives. Her education was obtained in the village school of Whitesboro, and she 
began to contribute at an early age stories and little poems to the papers. After 
she had won considerable literary fame she was married, in 1847, to the Bev. Ben¬ 
jamin W. Whitclier, pastor of the Protestant Episcopal Church at Elmira, New 
York, where she resided with her husband for a period of three years, continuing 
to contribute her humorous papers to the magazine, and taking as her models her 
acquaintances at Elmira, as she had been accustomed to do at Whitesboro. The 
people of Elmira, however, were not so ready to be victimized, and turned against 
her such shafts of persecution and even insult for her ludicrous pictures of them as 
to destroy her happiness and her husband’s usefulness as a minister to an extent 
that they were compelled to leave Elmira, and they removed to Whitesboro in 1850, 
where, as stated above, she died two years later. 

Mrs. Whitclier was something of an artist as well as a writer and illustrated cer¬ 
tain of her sketches with her own hands. During her life none of her works were 
published except in magazines and periodicals, but after her death these contribu¬ 
tions were collected and published in book form; the first entitled “ The Widow 
Bedott Papers,” appearing in 1855, with an introduction by Alice B. Neal. In 
1857 came “ The Widow Spriggins, Mary Allen and Other Sketches,” edited by 
Mrs. M. L. Ward Whitclier with a memoir of the author. We publish in con¬ 
nection with this sketch the poem “ Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles ” and also her 
own humorous comments on some of her poetry, about her husband Hezekiah, which 
she wrote to a friend, pausing as the various stanzas suggest, to throw in amusing 
side lights on neighborhood character and gossip. 


WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES. 


(from the 



REVEREND sir, I do declare 
It drives me most to frenzy, 
To think of you a lying there 
Down sick with influenzy. 


“ WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS.”) 

0 I could to your bedside fly, 
And wipe your weeping eyes, 
And do my best to cheer you up, 
If’t wouldn’t create surprise. 


A body’d thought it was enough 
To mourn your wife’s departer, 
Without sich trouble as this ere 
To come a follerin’ arter. 

But sickness and affliction, are 
Sent by a wise creation, 

And always ought to be underwent 
By patience and resignation. 


It’s a world of trouble we tarry in, 

But, Elder, don’t despair; 

That you may soon be movin’ again 
Is constantly my prayer. 

Both sick and well, you may depend 
You’ll never be forgot 
By your faithful and affectionate friend, 

Priscilla Pool Bedott. 




































FRANCES MIRIAM WHITCHER. 


273 


THE WIDOW’S POETRY ABOUT HEZEKIAH AND HER COMMENTS ON THE SAME. 


(from “widow bedott papers.”) 


ES,—lie was one 0’ the best men that ever 
trod shoe-leather, husband was, though 
Miss Jenkins says (she ’twas Poll Bing¬ 
ham), she says, I never found it out till after he died, 
but that’s the consarndest lie that ever was told, 
though it’s jest a piece with everything else she says 
about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry 
I writ to his mem’ry, nobody wouldn’t think I dident 
set store by him. Want to hear it? Well, I’ll see 
if I can say it; it ginerally affects me wonderfully, 
seems to harrer up my feelin’s; but I’ll try. It be¬ 
gins as follers :— 

He never jawed in all his life, 

He never was onkind,— 

And (tho’ I say it that was his wife) 

Such men you seldom find. 

(That’s as true as the Scripturs ; I never knowed him 
to say a harsh word.) 

I never changed my single lot,— 

I thought ’twould be a sin— 

(Though widder Jinkins says it’s because I never had 
a chance.) Now ’tain’t for me to say whether I ever 
had a numerous number o’ chances or not, but there’s 
them livin’ that might tell if they wos a mind to ; why, 
this poitry was writ on account of being joked about 
Major Coon, three years after husband died. I guess 
the ginerality 0’ folks knows what was the nature 0’ 
Majors Coon’s feelin’s towards me, tho’ his wife and 
Miss Jinkins does say I tried to ketch him. The fact 
is, Miss Coon feels wonderfully cut up ’cause she 
knows the Major took her “ Jack at a pinch,”—seein’ 
he couldent get such as he wanted, he took such as he 
could get,—but I goes on to say— 

I never changed my single lot, 

I thought ’twould be a sin,— 

For I thought so much 0’ Deacon Bedott, 

I never got married agin. 



Tell the men that’s after me 
To ketch me if they can. 

If I was sick a single jot, 

He called the doctor in— 

That’s a fact,—he used to be scairt to death if any 
thing ailed me. Now only jest think,—widder 
Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she ’twas Sally 
Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great 
store by me, or he wouldent went off to confrence 
meetin’, when I was down with the fever. The truth 
is, they couldent git along without him no way. Parson 
Potter seldom went to confrence meetin’, and when 
he wa’n’t there, who was ther’, pray tell, that 
knowed enough to take the lead if husband 
dident do it ? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and 
Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all 
come onto Deacon Bedott,—and he was always ready 
and willin’ to do his duty, you know; as long as he 
was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to 
confrence meetin’; why, I’ve knowed that man to go 
when he couldent scarcely crawl on account 0’ the 
pain in the spine of his back. 

He had a wonderful gift, and he wa’n’t a man to 
keep his talents hid up in a napkin,—so you see 
’twas from a sense 0’ duty he went when I was sick, 
whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But 
where was I ? Oh !— 

If I was sick a single jot, 

He called the doctor in— 

I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott 
I never got married agin. 

A wonderful tender heart he had, 

That felt for all mankind,— 

It made him feel amazin’ bad 
To see the world so blind. 

Whiskey and rum he tasted not— 


If ever a hasty word he spoke, 
His anger dident last, 

But vanished like tobacker smoke 
Afore the wintry blast. 

And since it was my lot to be 
The wife of such a man, 

18 p. h. 


That’s as true as the Scripturs,—but if you’ll believe 
it, Betsy, Ann Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss 
Jinkins said one day to their house how’t she’d seen 
Deacon Bedott high, time and agin! did you ever! 
Well, I’m glad nobody don’t pretend to mind anything 
she says. I’ve knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and 












274 


FRANCES MIRIAM WHITCHER. 


she never knowed how to speak the truth—besides 
she always had a partikkeler spite against husband and 
me, and between us tew I’ll tell you why if you won’t 
mention it, for I make it a pint never to say nothin’ 
to injure nobody. Well, she was a ravin’-distracted 
after my husband herself, but it’s a long story, I’ll tell 
you about it some other time, and then you’ll know 
why widder Jinkins is etarnally runnin’ me down. 
See,—where had I got to ? Oh, I remember now,— 

Whisky and rum he tasted not,— 

He thought it was a sin,— 

I thought so much o’ Deacon Bedott 
I never got married agin. 

But now he’s dead ! the thought is killin’, 

My grief I can’t control— 

He never left a single shillin’ 

His widder to console. 

But that wa’n’t his fault—he was so out o’ health for 
a number o’ year afore he died, it ain’t to be wondered 
at he dident lay up nothin’—however, it dident give 
him no great oneasiness,—he never cared much for 
airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard 
Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the 
skin on his back,—begrudged folks their vittals when 
they come to his house! did you ever ! why, he was 
the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born days. 
If I’d such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I’d hold 
my tongue about my neighbors’ husbands. He was 


a dretful mean man, used to git drunk every day of 
his life, and he had an awful high temper,—used to 
swear like all possest when he got mad,—and I’ve 
heard my husband say (and he wa’n’t a man that ever 
said anything that wa’n’t true),—I’ve heard him say 
Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of his eye 
teeth if he had a chance. Where was I ? Oh! 
“ His widder to console,”—ther ain’t but one more 
verse, ’tain’t a very lengthy poim. When Parson 
Potter read it, he says to me, says he,—“ What did 
you stop so soon for ? ”—but Miss Jinkins told the 
Crosby’s she thought I’d better a’ stopt afore I’d 
begun,—she’s a purty critter to talk so, I must say. 
I'd like to see some poitry o’ hern,—I guess it would 
be astonisliin’ stuff; and mor’n all that, she said there 
wa’n’t a word o’ truth in the hull on’t,—said I never 
cared tuppence for the deacon. What an everlastin’ 
lie! Why, when he died, I took it so hard I went 
deranged, and took on so for a spell they was afraid 
, they should have to send me to a Lunatic Arsenal. 
But that’s a painful subject, I won’t dwell on’t. 

I conclude as follers :— 

I'll never change my single lot,— 

I think ’twould be a sin,— 

The inconsolable widder o’ Deacon Bedott 
Don’t intend to git married agin. 

Excuse my cryin’—my feelin’s always overcomes me 
1 so when I say that poitry—O-o-o-o-o-o ! 


i 









CHARLES F. BROWNE. 

(artemus ward). 

1RTEMUS WARD first revealed to the world that humor is a charac¬ 
teristic trait of the Yankee, and he was the first to succeed in pro¬ 
ducing a type of comic literature distinctively American, purely the 
product of his original genius. 

It is impossible to analyze his jokes or to tell why they are irresist¬ 
ibly funny, but it would be generally admitted that his best things 
are as much creations of genius as masterpieces of art are. 

He was one of the kindest and most generous of men ; he used his keen wit to 
smite evil customs and to satirize immoral deeds, and he went through his short life 
enjoying above everything to make people laugh and to laugh himself, but with all 
his play of wit there was a tinge of melancholy in his nature and a tendency to do 
the most unexpected things, a tendency which he never tried to control. He was 
born in Waterford, Maine, in 1834, and he came honestly by a view of humor from 
his father’s side. He had only a most meagre school education, and at fourteen he 
set himself to learn the printer’s trade, becoming one of the best typesetters in the 
country. 

He drifted from place to place and finally became one of the staff of the “ Com¬ 
mercial ” at Toledo, Ohio, where he first displayed his peculiar richness of humor 
in his news reports. In 1857 he became local editor of the Plain-Dealer ” in 
Cleveland, and it was here his sketches were first signed Artemus Ward, a name 
which he took from a peculiar character who called on him once in his Cleveland 
office. He is described at this time as being in striking degree gawky and slouchy, 
with yellowish, straight hair, a loose swaggering gait, and strangely ill-fitting clothes, 
though as his popularity and position rose he took on more cultivated manners and 
grew very particular regarding his dress. 

His first attempts at lecturing were not marked with success and he was forced to 
explain his jokes to his audiences to make the desired laugh come, but he soon 
attracted attention and multitudes flocked to hear the “ grate showman,” with his 
u moral wax figgers.” In 1863 he crossed the continent and on this trip he collected 
material for his most humorous lectures and for the best of his chapters. 

The Mormons furnished him with the material for his most telling lecture, and it 
was a mark of his genius that he was irresistibly drawn to Utah to study this pecu¬ 
liar type of American society. 



275 







































276 


CHARLES F. BROWNE. 


He went to England in 1866, where, though in failing health, ending in prema¬ 
ture death, he created almost a sensation and had flattering successes. The “ Mor¬ 
mons ” never failed to fill a hall and always carried his audiences by storm. 

Some of his most brilliant articles were written for “ Punch,” and the American 
humorist was recognized as a typical genius ; but he was a dying man while he was 
making his London audiences laugh at his spontaneous wit, and his life came to an 
end at Southampton, January 23, 1867. 

He provided in his will for the establishment of an asylum for printers and for the 
education of their orphan children, an action which revealed, as many acts of his 
life had done, the kindly human spirit of the humorist. 

His published books, which owe much of their charm to his characteristic spell¬ 
ing, are as follows: “ Artemus Ward, His Book,” and “ Artemus Ward, His 
Travels” (1865), “Artemus Ward in London” (1867), “Artemus Ward’s Lecture, 
as delivered in Egyptian Hall, London,” edited by T. W. Bobertson and E. P. 
Hingston (1869), and “Artemus Ward, His Works Complete,” with biographical 
sketch by Melville D. Landon (1875). 


ARTEMUS WARD VISITS THE SHAKERS. 


R. SHAKER,” sed I, “ you see before you a 
Babe in the Woods, so to speak, and he 
axes a shelter of you.” 

“ Yay,” said the Shaker, and he led the way into 
the house, another bein' sent to put my horse and 
wagon under kiver. 

A solum female, lookin’ somewhat like a last year’s 
bean-pole stuck into a long meal-bag, cum in and axed 
me was I athirst and did I hunger? To which I 
asserted, “ A few.” She went orf, and I endeavored 
to open a conversation with the old man. 

“ Elder, I spect,” sed I. 

“ Yay,” he said. 

“ Health’s good, I reckon ? ” 

“ Yay.” 

“ What’s the wages of a Elder, when he under¬ 
stands his bizness—or do you devote your sarvices 
gratooitous ? ” 

“Yay.” 

“ Storm nigh, sir ? ” 

“ Yay.” 

“ If the storm continues there’ll be a mess under¬ 
foot, hay ? ” 

“ Yay.” 

“ If I may be so bold, kind sir, what’s the price of 
&hat pecooler kind of wesket you wear, includin’ 
trimmin’s ? ” 

“ Yay.” 


I pawsed a minit, and, thinkin’ I’d be faseshus with 
him and see how that would go, I slapt him on the 
shoulder, burst into a hearty larf, and told him that as 
a yayer he had no livin’ ekel. 

He jumped up as if bilin’ water had been squirted 
into his ears, groaned, rolled his eyes up tords the 
sealin’ and sed: 

“ You’re a man of sin ! ” 

He then walked out of the room. 

Directly thar cum in two young Shakeresses, as 
putty and slick lookin’ galls as I ever met. It is troo 
they was drest in meal-bags like the old one I’d met 
previsly, and their shiny, silky hair was hid from sight 
by long, white caps, such as I spose female gosts wear ; 
but their eyes sparkled like diamonds, their cheeks 
was like roses, and they was charmin’ enuff to make a 
man throw stuns at his grandmother, if they axed him 
to. They commenst clearing away the dishes, casting 
shy glances at me all the time. I got excited. I 
forget Betsey Jane in my rapter, and sez I; 

“ My pretty dears, how air you ? ” 

“ We air well,” they solumly sed. 

“ Where is the old man ? ” said I, in a soft voice. 
“ Of whom dost thou speak—Brother Uriah ? ” 

“ I mean that gay and festive cuss who calls me a 
man of sin. Shouldn’t wonder if his name wasn’t 
Uriah.” 

“ He has retired.” 















CHARLES F. BROWNE. 


2 77 


u Wall, my pretty dears,” sez I, “ let’s have some 
fun. Let’s play puss in the corner. What say ? ” 

“ Air you a Skaker, sir? ” they asked. 

“Wall, my pretty dears, I haven’t arrayed my 
proud form in a long weskit yet, but if they wus all 
like you perhaps I’d jine ’em. As it is, I am willing 
to be Shaker protemporary.” 

They was full of fun. I seed that at fust, only they 

- 


was a little skeery. I tawt ’em puss in the corner, and 
sich like plase, and we had a nice time, keepin’ quiet 
of course, so that the old man shouldn’t hear. When 
we broke up, sez I: 

“ My pretty dears, ear I go, you have no objections 
have you ? to a innersent kiss at partin’ ? ” 

“ Yay,” they said, and I—yayed. 


ARTEMUS WARD AT THE TOMB OF SHAKESPEARE. 


’YE been lingerin’ by the tomb of the 
lamented Shakespeare. 

It is a success. 

I do not hes’tate to pronounce it as such. 

You may make any use of this opinion that you see 
fit. If you think its publication will subswerve the 
cause of literatoor, you may publicate. 

I told my wife Betsey, when I left home, that I 
should go to the birthplace of the orthur of Otheller 
and other Plays. She said that as long as I kept out 
of Newgate she didn’t care where I went. “ But,” I 
said, “ don’t you know he was the greatest Poit 
that ever lived ? Not one of these common poits, like 
that young idyit who writes verses to our daughter? 
about the roses as groses, and the breezes as blowses 
—but a Boss poit—also a philosopher, also a man who 
knew a great deal about everything.” 

Yes. I’ve been to Stratford onto the Avon, the 
Birth-place of Shakespeare. Mr. S. is now no more. 
He’s been dead over three hundred (300) years. The 
peple of his native town are justly proud of him. They 
cherish his mem’ry, and them as sell picturs of his 
birth-place, &c., make it prof’tible cherishin’ it. Al¬ 
most everybody buys a pictur to put into their 
Albiom. 

“ And this,” I said, as I stood in the old church¬ 
yard at Stratford, beside a Tombstone, “ this marks 
the spot where lies William W. Shakespeare. Alars! 
and this is the spot where—” 

“ You’ve got the wrong grave,” said a man—a 



worthy villager; “ Shakespeare is buried inside the 
church.” 

“ Oh,” I said, “a boy told me this was it.” The 
boy larfed and put the shillin’ I’d given him into his 
left eye in a inglorious manner, and commenced mov¬ 
ing backwards towards the street. 

I pursood and captered him, and, after talking to 
him a spell in a sarkastic stile, I let him went. 

William Shakespeare was born in Stratford in 1564. 
All the commentators, Shakesperian scholars, etsetry, 
are agreed on this, which is about the only thing they 
are agreed on in regard to him, except that his mantle 
hasn’t fallen onto any poet or dramatist hard enough 
to hurt said poet or dramatist much. And there is no 
doubt if these commentators and persons continner in¬ 
vestigatin’ Shakespeare’s career, we shall not in doo 
time, know anything about it at all. When a mere 
lad little William attended the Grammar School, be¬ 
cause, as he said, the Grammar School wouldn’t attend 
him. This remarkable remark coming from one so 
young and inexperunced, set peple to thinkin’ there 
might be something in this lad. He subsequently 
wrote Hamlet and George Barnwell. When his kind 
teacher went to London to accept a position in the 
offices of the Metropolitan Railway, little William was 
chosen by his fellow-pupils to deliver a farewell ad- 
dress. “ Go on, sir,” he said, “in a glorous career. 
Be like a eagle, and soar, and the soarer you get the 
more we shall be gratified 1 That’s so.” 

















Xfx’ 



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’^x"^|x"x4x"xiv."x;x"xix"x4x'>iv>ix 




✓AV 

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I 


HENRY WHEELER SHAW. 




(“josh billings.”) 





T is astonishing what effect is produced by peculiarities of form or 
manner. It may be true that the writings of Thomas Carlyle owe 
much of their force and vigor to his disregard for grammatical rules 
and his peculiar arrangement of words and sentences; but one of the 
most surprising instances of this kind is in the fact that the “Essay 
on the Mule, by Josh Billings,” received no attention whatever, 




while the same contribution transformed into the “Essa on the Muel, bi Josh 
Billings,” was eagerly copied by almost every paper in the country. Josh Billings 
once said that “Chaucer was a great poit, but he couldn’t spel,” and apparently it 
was Mr. Shaw’s likeness, in this respect, to the author of “Canterbury Tales” 
which won him much of his fame. 

He was the son of a member of the Massachusetts Legislature, born in 1818, 
and entered Hamilton College; but being captivated by stories of Western life and 
adventure, abandoned college to seek his fortune in the West. The fortune was 
slow in coming, and he worked as a laborer on steamboats on the Ohio, and as a 
farmer, and finally drifted back to Poughkeepsie, New York, as an auctioneer. 
Here he wrote his first contribution to a periodical, “The Essa on the Muel,” which 
has been above mentioned. 

The popularity of the revised form of this classic of poor spelling induced him 
to publish “Josh Billings’ Farmers’ Allminax,” which continued for ten years, 
having during a part of the time a circulation of one hundred and twenty-seven 
thousand copies per annum. In 1863 Mr. Shaw entered the lecture-field. His 
lectures being a series of pithy sayings without care or order, delivered in an 
apparently awkward manner. The quaintness and drollery of his discourse won 
very great popularity. For twenty years he was a regular contributor of “The 
New York Weekly,” and it is said that the articles which appeared in “The 
Century Magazine,” under the signature of “Uncle Esek,” were his. His published 
books are “Josh Billings, His Sayings;” “Josh Billings on Ice;” “Everybody’s 
Friend;” “Josh Billings’ Complete Works,” and “Josh Billings’ Spice Box.” 

Mr. Shaw died in Monterey, California, in 1885. 

278 


1 















































HENRY WHEELER SHAW. 


279 


JOSH BILLING’S ADVERTISEMENT. 

(FROM “ JOSH BILLINGS, HIS WORKS.” 1876.) 


KAN sell for eighteen hundred and thirty - 
nine dollars a pallas, a sweet and pensive 
retirement, lokated on the virgin banks ov 
the Hudson, kontaining eighty-five acres. The land 
is luxuriously divided by the hand of natur and art 
into pastor and tillage, into plain and deklivity, into 
stern abruptness, and the dallianse ov moss-tufted 
medder; streams ov sparkling gladness (thick with 
trout) danse through this wilderness ov buty tew 
the low musik ov the kricket and grasshopper. The 
evergreen sighs as the evening sephir flits through its 
shadowy buzzum, and the aspen trembles like the 
luv-smitten harte ov a damsell. Fruits ov the tropicks, 
in golden buty, melt on the bows, and the bees go 
heavy and sweet from the fields to their garnering 
hives. The manshun is ov Parian marble ; the porch 
iz a single diamond, set with rubiz and the mother ov 
pearl; the floors are ov rosewood, and the ceilings are 
more butiful than the starry vault of heaven. Hot 
and cold water bubbles and quirts in evry apartment, 
and nothing is wanting that a poet could pra for, or 



art could portray. The stables are worthy of the 
steeds ov Nimrod or the studs ov Akilles, and its 
hennery waz bilt expressly for the birds of paradice • 
while sombre in the distance, like the cave ov a 
hermit, glimpses are caught ov the dorg-house. Here 
poets hav cum and warbled their laze—here skulptors 
hav cut, here painters hav robbed the scene ov dreamy 
landscapes, and here the philosopher diskovered the 
stun which made him the alkimist ov natur. Next, 
northward ov this thing ov buty, sleeps the resi¬ 
dence and domain ov the Duke, John Smith, while 
southward, and nearer the spice-breathing tropicks, 
may be seen the barronial villy ov Earl Brown and 
the Duchess, Widder Betsy Stevens. Walls ov 
primitiff rock, laid in Roman cement, bound the 
estate, while upward and downward the eye catches 
the magesta and slow grander ov the Hudson. As 
the young moon hangs like a cutting ov silver from 
the blue brest ov the ski, an angel may be seen each 
night dansing with golden tiptoes on the green. (N. 
B.—This angel goes with the place.) 


MANIFEST DESTINY. 



ANIFESS destiny iz the science ov going 
tew bust, or enny other place before yu git 
thare. I may be rong in this centiment, 
but that iz the way it strikes me; and i am so put 
together that when enny thing strikes me i imme- 
jiately strike back. Manifess destiny mite perhaps 
be blocked out agin as the condishun that man and 


things find themselfs in with a ring in their nozes 
and sumboddy hold ov the ring. I may be rong agin, 
but if i am, awl i have got tew sa iz i don’t kno it, 
and what a man don’t kno ain t no damage tew enny 
boddy else. The tru way that manifess destiny had 
better be sot down iz the exact distance that a frog 
kan jump down hill with a striped snake after him , i 
don’t kno but i may be rong onst more, but if the 
frog don’t git ketched the destiny iz jist what he iz 


a looking for. 

When a man falls into the bottom ov a well and 
makes up hiz minde tew stay thare, that ain t mani¬ 
fest destiny enny more than having yure hair cut short 

23 


iz; but if he almost gits out and then falls down in 
agin 16 foot deeper and brakes off hiz neck twice in 
the same plase and dies and iz buried thare at low 
water, that iz manifess destiny on the square. Stand¬ 
ing behind a cow in fly time and gitting kicked twice 
at one time must feel a good deal like manifess 
destiny. Being about 10 seckunds tew late tew git 
an express train, and then chasing the train with yure 
wife, and an umbreller in yure hands, in a hot day, 
and not getting as near tew the train az you waz 
when started, looks a leetle like manifess destiny 
on a rale rode trak. Going into a tempranse house 
and calling for a leetle old Bourbon on ice, and being 
told in a mild way that “ the Bourbon iz jist out, but 
they hav got sum gin that cost 72 cents a gallon in 
Paris,” sounds tew me like the manifess destiny ov 
most tempranse houses. 

Mi dear reader, don’t beleave in manifess destiny 
until yu see it. Thare is such a thing az manifess 
destiny, but when it occurs it iz like the number ov 





















28 o 


HENRY WHEELER SHAW. 


rings on the rakoon’s tale, ov no great consequense 
only for ornament. Man wan’t made for a machine, 
if he waz, it was a locomotiff machine, and manifess 
destiny must git oph from the trak when the bell 
rings or git knocked higher than the price ov gold. 
Manifess destiny iz a disseaze, but it iz eazy tew heal; 
i have seen it in its wust stages cured bi sawing a 


cord ov dri hickory wood, i thought i had it onse; 
it broke out in the shape ov poetry; i sent a speci- 
ment ov the disseaze tew a magazine ; the magazine 
man wrote me next day az follers : 

“ Dear Sur: You may be a phule, but you are no 
poeck. Yures, in haste.” 


■♦O* 


LETTERS TO FARMERS. 


ELOVED FARMERS : Agrikultur iz the 
mother ov farm produce; she is also the 
step-mother ov gardin sass. 

Rize at half-past 2 o’clock in the morning, bild up 
a big fire in the kitchen, burn out two pounds ov 
handles, and grease yure boots. Wait pashuntly for 
dabrake. When day duz brake, then commence tew 
stir up the geese and worry the hogs. 

Too mutch sleep iz ruinous tew geese and tew hogs. 
Remember yu kant git rich on a farm, unless yu rize 
at 2 o’clock in the morning, and stir up the hogs and 
worry the geese. 


The happyest man in the world iz the farmer; he 
rizes at 2 o’clock in the morning, he watches for da 
lite tew brake, and when she duz brake, he goes out 
and stirs up the geese and worrys the hogs. 

What iz a lawyer?—W r hat iz a merchant ?—W r hat 
iz a doktor ?—What iz a minister ?—I answer, noth¬ 
ing ! 

A farmer is the nobless work ov God; he rizes at 
2 o’clock in the morning, and burns out a half a 
pound ov wood and two kords of kandles, and then 
goes out tew worry the geese and stir up the hogs. 

Reloved farmers, adew. Josh Billings. 















SAMUEL L. CLEMENS. 

(mark twain). 

AKK TWAIN has a world wide reputation as the great American 
humorist, a reputation which has been steadily growing at home and 
abroad since the publication of “ Innocents Abroad ” in 1869, and 
he is undoubtedly one of the most popular authors in the United 
States. The story of his life is the record of a career which could 
have been possible in no other country in the world. 

He was born in Florida in 1835, though most of his boyhood was passed at 
Hanibal, Mo., where he attended the village school until he was thirteen, which was 
his only opportunity for educational training. At this early age he was apprenticed 
to a printer and worked at this trade in St. Louis, Cincinnatti, Philadelphia and 
New York. During his boyhood his great ambition, his one yearning, had been to 
become one day a pilot on a Mississippi steamboat. He realized this ambition in 
1851 and the experiences of this pilot life are told in his “ Life on the Mississippi.” 
His pen-name was suggested by the expression used in Mississippi navigation where 
in sounding a depth of two fathoms, the leadsman calls out, “ Mark Twain!” 

After serving in 1861 in Nevada as private secretary to his brother who was at 
this time secretary of the Territory, he became city editor of the Virginia City 
“ Enterprise,” and here his literary labors began, and the pseudonym now so 
familiar was first used. 

In 1865, he Avas reporter on the staff of the San Francisco “ Morning Call,” 
though his newspaper work was interspersed with unsuccessful attempts at gold 
digging and a six months’ trip to Hawaii. 

This was followed by a lecture trip through California and Nevada, which gave 
unmistakable evidence that he had the “gift” of humor. 

His fame, however, was really made by the publication of “ Innocents Abroad ” 
(Hartford, 1869), 125,000 copies of which were sold in three years. This book is a 
brilliant, humorous account of the travels, experiences and opinions of a party of 
tourists to the Mediterranean, Egypt, Palestine, France and Italy. 

His next literary work of note was the publication of “ Roughing It ” (Hart¬ 
ford, 1872), which shook the sides of readers all over the United States. This con¬ 
tained inimitable sketches of the rough border life and personal experiences in Cali¬ 
fornia, Nevada and Utah. In fact all Mark Twain’s literary work which bears the 
stamp of permanent worth and merit is personal and autobiographical. He is never 
so successful in works that are purely of an imaginative character. 

281 



































282 


SAMUEL L. CLEMENS. 


In 1873, in conjunction with Charles Dudley Warner, he produced a story 
entitled the “ Gilded Age ” which was dramatized and had a marked success on the 
stage. His other well-known works are : “Sketches Old and New;” “ Adventures 
of Tom Sawyer ” (1876), a story of boy life in Missouri and one of his best produc¬ 
tions, “ Punch, Brothers, Punch ” (1878); “A Tramp Abroad ” (1880), containing 
some of his most humorous and successful descriptions of personal experiences on a 
trip through Germany and Switzerland; “The Stolen White Elephant” (1882); 
“ Prince and the Pauper ” (1882); “Life on the Mississippi ” (1883) ; “ Adventures 
of Huckleberry Finn” (1885), a sequel to “Tom Sawyer;” “A Yankee at King 
Arthur’s Court” and Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc” (1896). 

In 1884, he established in New York City the publishing house of C. L. 
Webster & Co., which issued in the following year the “ Memoirs ” of U. S 
Grant, the profits from which publication to the amount of $350,000 were paid 
to Mrs. Grant in accordance with an agreement previously signed with General 
Grant. 

By the unfortunate failure of this company in 1895, Mark Twain found himself 
a poor man and morally, though not legally, responsible for large sums due the 
creditors. Like Sir Walter Scott, he resolved to wipe out the last dollar of the debt 
and at once entered upon a lecturing trip around the world, which effort is proving 
financially a success. He is also at work upon a new book soon to be published. 
His home is at Hartford, Connecticut, where he has lived in delightful friendship 
and intercourse with Charles Dudley Warner, Harriet Beecher Stowe and r flier 
literary characters of that city. His writings have been translated into German and 
they have met with large sales both in England and on the continent. 


JIM SMILEY’S FROG. 


ELL, this yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and 
chicken-cocks, and all them kind of things, 
till you couldn’t rest, and you couldn’t fetch 
nothing for him to bet on but he’d match you. He 
ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said 
he cal’klated to edercate him ; and so he never done 
nothing for three months but set in his back yard and 
learn that frog to jump. And you bet he did learn 
him, too. He’d give him a little punch behind, and 
the next minute you’d see that frog whirling in the 
air like a doughnut,—see him turn one summerset, or 
maybe a couple, if he got a good start, and come down 
flat-footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up 
so in the matter of catching flies, and kept him in 
practice so constant, that he’d nail a fly every time 
as far as he could see him. Smiley said all a frog 
wanted was education, and he could do most any¬ 
thing ; and I believe him. Why, I’ve seen him set 
J)an’l\Yebsterdown hereon this floor,—JDan’l Web¬ 



ster was the name of the frog,—and sing out, *'• Flies, 
Dan’l, flies,” and quicker’n you could wink he’d 
spring straight up, and snake a fly off’n the counter 
there, and flop down on the floor again, as solid as a 
gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head 
with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn’t no idea 
he’d been doing any more’n any frog might do. You 
never see a frog so modest and straightfor’ard as he 
was, for all he was so gifted. And when it came to 
fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get 
over more ground at one straddle than any animal of 
his breed you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was 
his strong suit, you understand ; and when it come to 
that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as 
he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of his 
frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had trav¬ 
eled and been everywhere, all said he laid over any 
frog that ever they see. 

Well, Smiley kept the beast ia a little lattice box, 








SAMUEL L. CLEMENS. 


283 


and he used to fetch him down town sometimes, and 
lay for a bet. One day a feller,—a stranger in the 
camp he was,—came across him with his box, and 
says: 

“ What might it be that you’ve got in the box ? ” 

And Smiley says sorter indifferent like, “ It might 
be a parrot, or it might be a canary, may be, but it 
ain’t,—it’s only just a frog.” 

And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and 
turned it round this way and that, and says, “ H’m ! 
so ’tis. Well, what’s he good for ? ” 

“ Well,” Smiley says, easy and careless, “ he’s good 
enough for one thing, I should judge—he can outjump 
any frog in Calaveras County.” 

The feller took the box again, and took another long 
particular look, and gave it back to Smiley, and says, 
very deliberate, “ Well, I don’t see no p’ints about 
that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.” 

“ May be you don’t,” Smiley says. “ May be you 
understand frogs, and may be you don’t understand 
’em; may be you’ve had experience, and may be you 
an’t only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got 
my opinion, and I’ll risk forty dollars that he can out¬ 
jump any frog in Calaveras County. 

And the feller studied a minute, and then says, 
kinder sad like, “ Well, I’m only a stranger here, and 
I ain’t got no frog; but if I had a frog, I’d bet 
you.” 

And then Smiley says, u That’s all right, that’s all 
right; if you’ll hold my box a minute, I’ll go and get 
you a frog.” And so the feller took the box, and put 
up his forty dollars along with Smiley’s and set down 
to wait. So he set there a good while, thinking and 
thinking to hisself, and then he got the frog out and 
prized his mouth open, and took a teaspoon and filled 


him full of quail shot,—filled him pretty near up to 
his chin,—and set him on the floor. Smiley he went 
to the swamp, and slopped around in the mud for a 
long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched 
him in, and give him to this feller, and says: 

“ Now, if you’re ready, set him alongside of Dan’l, 
with his fore-paws just even with Dan’l, and I'll give 
the word.” Then he says, “ One—two—three— 
jump;” and him and the feller touched up the frogs 
from behind, and the new frog hopped off, but Dan’l 
gave a heave and hysted up his shoulders,—so,—like a 
Frenchman, but it wasn’t no use,—he couldn’t budge ; 
he was planted as solid as an anvil, and he couldn’t 
no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was 
a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted, too, but 
he didn’t have no idea what the matter was, of 
course. 

The feller took the money and started away; and 
when he was going out at the door, he sorter jerked 
his thumb over his shoulders,—this way,—at Dan’l, 
and says again, very deliberate, “ Well, I don’t see no 
p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other 
frog.” 

Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking 
down at Dan’l a long time, and at last he says, “ I do 
wonder what in the nation that frog throwed off for; 
I wonder if there an’t something the matter with 
him, he ’pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.” 
And he ketched Dan’l by the nap of the neck, and 
lifted him up, and says, “ Why, blame my cats, if he 
don’t weigh five pound ! ” and turned him upside 
down, and he belched out a double handful of shot. 
And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest 
man. He set the frog down, and took out after that 
feller, but he never ketched him. 


-•O 


UNCLE DAN’L’S APPARITION AND PRAYER. 


(FROM “ THE GILDED AGE ” 

DEEP coughing sound troubled the stillness, 
way toward a wooded cape that jutted into 
the stream a mile distant. All in an in¬ 
stant a fierce eye of fire shot out from behind the cape 
and sent a long brilliant pathway quivering athwart 
the dusky water. The coughing grew louder and 
louder, the glaring eye grew larger and still larger, 
glared wilder and still wilder. A huge shape de- 



OF CLEMENS AND WARNER.) 

veloped itself out of the gloom, and from its tall 
duplicate horns dense volumes of smoke, starred and 
spangled with sparks, poured out and went tumbling 
away into the farther darkness. Nearer and nearer 
the thing came, till its long sides began to glow with 
spots of light which mirrored themselves in the river 
and attended the monster like a torchlight processiom 
“ What is it ? Oh, what is it, Uncle Dan’l! ” 









284 


SAMUEL L. CLEMENS. 




With deep solemnity the answer came: 

“ It’s de Almighty! Git down on yo’ knees ! ” 

It was not necessary to say it twice. They were 
all kneeling in a moment. And then while the mys¬ 
terious coughing rose stronger and stronger and the 
threatening glare reached farther and wider, the 
negro’s voice lifted up its supplications: 

“ 0 Lord, we’s ben mighty wicked, an’ we knows 
dat we 'zerve to go to de bad place, but good Lord, 
deah Lord, we ain’t ready yit, we ain’t ready—let 
these po’ chil’en hab one mo’ chance, jes’ one mo’ 
chance. Take de old niggah if you's got to hab some¬ 
body. Good Lord, good deah Lord, we don’t know 
whah you’s a gwine to, we don’t know who you’s got 
yo’ eye on, but we knows by de way you’s a comin,’ 
we knows by the way you’s a tiltin’ along in yo’ 
charyot o’ fiah dat some po’ sinner’s a gwine to ketch 
it. But, good Lord, dese chil’en don’ b’long heah, 
dey’s f’m Obedstown whah dey don’t know nuffin, 
an’ yo’ knows, yo’ own sef, dat dey ain’t ’sponsible. 
An’ deah Lord, good Lord, it ain’t like yo’ mercy, 
it ain't like yo’ pity, it ain’t like yo’ long-sufferin’ 
lovin’-kindness for to take dis kind 0 ’ ’vantage 0 ’ 
sich little chil’en as dese is when dey’s so many onery 
grown folks chuck fullo’ cussedness dat wants roastin’ 
down dab. 0 Lord, spah de little chil’en, don’t tar 
de little chil’en away f’m dey frens, jes’ let ’em off dis 
once, and take it out’n de ole niggah. Heah I is, 
Lord, heah I is ! De ole niggah’s ready, Lord, de 
ole-” 

The darning and churning steamer was right abreast 
the party, and not twenty steps away. The awful 
thunder of a mud-valve suddenly burst forth, drown¬ 
ing the prayer, and as suddenly Uncle Dan’l snatched 
a child under each arm and scoured into the woods 
with the rest of the pack at his heels. And then, 
ashamed of himself, he halted in the deep darkness 
and shouted (but rather feebly) : 

“ Heah I is, Lord, heah I is! ” 

There was a moment of throbbing suspense, and 
then, to the surprise and comfort of the party, it was 
plain that the august presence had gone by, for 
its dreadful noises were receding. Uncle Dan’l 
headed a cautious reconnoissance in the direction 
of the log. Sure enough “the Lord” was just 
turning a point a short distance up the river, and 
while they looked the lights winked out and the 


coughing diminished by degrees and presently ceased 
altogether. 

“ H’wsh! Well, now, dey’s some folks says dey 
ain’t no ’ficiency in prah. Dis chile would like to 
know whah we’d a ben now if it warn’t fo’ dat prah! 
Dat’s it. Dat’s it! ” 

“ Uncle Dan’l, do you reckon it was the prayer that 
saved us ? ” said Clay. 

“ Does I reckon ? Don’t I know it! Whah was 
yo’ eyes? Warn’t de Lord jes’ a cornin’ chow! 
chow ! CHOW ! an’ a goin’ on tumble—an’ do de Lord 
carry on dat way ’dout dey’s sumfin don’t suit him ? 
An’ warn’t he a lookin’ right at dis gang heah, an’ 
warn’t he jes’ a reachin’ fer ’em ? An’ d’you spec’ he 
gwine to let ’em off ’dout somebody ast him to do it ? 
No indeedy! ” 

“ Do you reckon he saw us, Uncle Dan’l ? ” 

“ De law sakes, chile, didn't I see him a lookin’ at 
us?” 

“ Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan’l? ” 

“No sah ! When a man is ’gaged in prah he ain’t 
fraid o’ nuffin—dey can’t nuffin tech him.” 

“ Well, what did you run for?” 

“ Well, I—I—Mars Clay, when a man is under de 
influence ob de sperit, he do-no what he’s ’bout— 
no sah; dat man do-no what he’s ’bout. You 
might take an’ tah de head off’n dat man an’ he 
wouldn’t scasely fine it out. Dah’s de Hebrew chil’en 
dat went frough de fiah ; dey was burnt considable— 
ob coase dey was; but dey did’nt know nuffin ’bout 
it—heal right up agin ; if dey’d been gals dey’d missed 
dey long haah (hair), maybe, but dey wouldn’t felt 
de burn.” 

“ I dont know but what they were girls. I think 
they were.” 

“ Now, Mars Clay, you knows better’n dat. Some¬ 
times a body can’t tell whedder you’s a sayin’ 
what you means or whedder you’s a saying what 

you don’t mean, ’case you says ’em bofe de same 
way.” 

“ But how should 1 know whether they were boys 
or girls ? ” 

“ Goodness sakes, Mars Clay, don’t de good book 
say ? ’Sides don’t it call ’em de He- brew chil’en ? If 
dey was gals wouldn’t dey be de she-brew chil’en ? 
Some people dat kin read don’t ’pear to take no no¬ 
tice when dey do read.” 












• SAMUEL L. CLEMENS. 


“ Well, Uncle Dan’l, I think that- My ! here 

comes another one up the river ! There can’t be two” 
“ We gone dis time—we done gone dis time sho’! 
Dey ain’t two, Mars Clay, dat’s de same one. De Lord 
kin ’pear everywhah in a second. Goodness, how de 
liah an’ de smoke do belch up ! Dat means business, 
honey. He cornin' now like he forgot sumfin. Come 


285 

long, cliil en, time you’s gone to roos’. Go ’long wid 
you—ole Uncle Dan 1 gwine out in de woods to rastle 
in prah—de ole niggah gwine to do what he kin to 
sabe you agin ! ” 

lie did go to the woods and pray; but he went so 
far that he doubted himself if the Lord heard him 
when he went by. 




THE BABIES. 


From a speech of Mark Twain at the banquet given in honor of Gen. Grant, by the Army of the Ten¬ 
nessee, at the Palmer House, Chicago, Nov. 14, 1879. 


OAST :—“ The Babies—As they comfort us 
in our sorrows, let us not forget them in 
our festivities.” 

I like that. We haven’t all had the good fortune 
to be ladies; we haven’t all been generals, or poets, 
or statesmen; but when the toast works down to the 
babies, we stand on common ground, for we have all 
been babies. It is a shame that for a thousand years 
the world’s banquets have utterly ignored the baby— 
as if he didn’t amount to anything! If you gentle¬ 
men will stop and think a minute,—if you will go 
back fifty or a hundred years, to your early married 
life, and recontemplate your first baby, you will re¬ 
member that he amounted to a good deal, and even 
something over. You soldiers all know that when 
that little fellow arrived at family head-quarters you 
had to hand in your resignation. He took entire 
command. You became his lackey, his mere body- 
servant, and you had to stand around, too. He was 
not a commander who made allowances for time, dis¬ 
tance, weather, or anything else. You had to execute 
his order whether it was possible or not. And there 
was only one form of marching in his manual of 
tactics, and that was the double-quick. He treated 
you with every sort of insolence and disrespect, and 
the bravest of you didn’t dare to say a word. You 
could face the death-storm of Donelson and Vicks¬ 
burg, and give back blow for blow; but when he 
clawed your whiskers, and pulled your hair, and 
twisted your nose, you had to take it. When the 
thunders of war w r ere sounding in your ears, you set 
your faces toward the batteries and advanced with 
steady tread; but when he turned on the terrors of 
his war-whoop, you advanced in the other direction— 
and mighty glad of the chance, too. When he called 



for soothing syrup, did you venture to throw out any 
side remarks about certain services unbecoming an 
officer and a gentleman ? No,—you got up and got 
it. If he ordered his bottle, and it wasn’t warm, did 
you talk back ? Not you,—you went to work and 
warmed it. You even descended so far in your 
menial office as to take a suck at that warm, insipid 
stuff yourself, to see if it was right,—three parts 
water to one of milk, a touch of sugar to modify the 
colic, and a drop of peppermint to kill those immortal 
hiccups. I can taste that stuff yet. And how many 
things you learned as you went along; sentimental 
young folks still took stock in that beautiful old say¬ 
ing that when the baby smiles in his sleep, it is be¬ 
cause the angels are whispering to him. Very pretty, 
but “too thin,”—simply wind on the stomach, my 
friends! If the baby proposed to take a walk at his 
usual hour, 2:30 in the morning, didn’t you rise up 
promptly and remark—with a mental addition which 
wouldn’t improve a Sunday-school book much—that 
that was the very thing you were about to propose 
yourself! Oh, you were under good discipline ! And 
as you went fluttering up and down the room in your 
“ undress uniform ” you not only prattled undignified 
baby-talk, but even tuned up your martial voices and 
tried to sing “ Rockaby baby in a tree-top,” for in¬ 
stance. What a spectacle for an Army of the Ten¬ 
nessee ! And what an affliction for the neighbors, 
too,—for it isn’t everybody within a mile around that 
likes military music at three in the morning. And 
when you had been keeping this sort of thing up 
two or three hours, and your little velvet-head inti¬ 
mated that nothing suited him like exercise and 
noise,—“ Go on ! ’’—what did you do ? You simply 
went on, till you disappeared in the last ditch. 
















E poetic declaration that “genius unbidden rises to the top” is fully 
verified in the now famous “Josiah Allen’s Wife.” Miss Holley 
commenced to write at an early age both verses and sketches, but 
was so timid that she jealously hid them away from every eye until 
she had accumulated quite a collection of manuscript. This most 
famous humorist among women was born in a country place near 
Adams, New York, where she still lives, and where five generations of her ancestors 
have resided. Her first appearance in print was in a newspaper published in 
Adams. The editor of the paper, it is said, praised her article, and she was also 
encouraged by Charles J. Peterson, for whom she wrote later. She wrote also for 
“The Independent” and other journals. Most of her early articles were poems, 
and were widely copied both in America and Europe. 

Miss Holley’s first pen-name was “Jeinyme.” It was not until she wrote a 
dialectic sketch for “Peterson’s Magazine” that she began to sign her name as 
“Josiah Allen’s Wife.” This sketch brought her into prominence, and Elija Bliss, 
President of The American Publishing Company, of Hartford, Connecticut, it is 
said, against the protests of his company, published “Josiah Allen’s Wife” in book 
form, and encouraged her to write another book, which he issued under the name of 
“My Opinions and Betsy Bobbet’s” (1872). Since this Miss Holley’s fame has 
steadily increased, and she has issued a book every few years. “Samantha at the 
Centennial” appeared in 1877, describing the experiences of herself and Josiah at 
that great international exhibition. It is extremely humorous and added to her 
already great fame. “My Wayward Pardner” appeared in 1880. In 1882 she 
published “Miss Richards’ Boy,” a book of stories, but not written in dialect. All 
of the above works were issued by her Hartford publisher, as was also her illustrated 
poem entitled “The Mormon Wife.” In 1885 “Sweet Cicely, or Josiah Allen’s Wife 
as a Politician,” appeared in New York. In 1887 her famous book, “Samantha at 
Saratoga,” was issued in Philadelphia, for the manuscript of which she was paid $10,- 
000 in cash, in addition to which sum she also received a considerable amount from 
the “Ladies’ Home Journal” for parts of the work published in serial form in that 
magazine. Nearly a quarter of a million copies of her “Samantha at Saratoga” 
have already been sold. During the same year she issued a book of poems in New 
York, and further popularized her nom-de-plume by “Samantha Among the 
Brethren” in 1891. In 1893 “Samantha on the Race Problem” created con- 

































MISS MARIETTA HOLLEY. 


287 

siderable amusement by the mixture of grotesque humor and philosophy on this 
much discussed and serious problem, the illustrations in the work adding no small 
quota to its popularity. In 1894 appeared “Samantha at the World’s Fair” in 
which the experiences of herself and her partner, Josiah, are even more amusing 
than those at the Centennial in 1876. 

Through all of Miss Holley’s works there runs a vein of homely philosophy and 
practical common sense. It is in a most delightfully good-humored manner that 
she takes off the foibles and follies of “racin’ after fashion.” Her humor is 
remarkably wholesome, and while it is not remiss in laughter-provoking quality, 
is always clear, and above all things j)ure. Her books have been widely circu¬ 
lated both in America and in Europe, and some of them have been translated 
into other languages. 

■■♦o* - 

JOSIAH ALLEN’S WIFE CALLS ON THE PRESIDENT* 

Josiah Allen has a violent attack of political fever and his wife being greatly exercised over it finally 
concludes to visit Washington, and take the advice of the President on the disturbing question. This inter¬ 
view with the President is a fair example of the author’s style. 


ND so we wended ^our way down the broad, 
beautiful streets towards the White House. 
ri?lr.uij Handsomer streets I never see. I had 
thought Jonesville streets wus middlin’ handsome and 
roomy. Why, two double wagons can go by each 
other with perfect safety, right in front of the 
grocery-stores, where there is lots of boxes too; and 
fvimmen can be a-walkin’ there too at the same time, 
defty ones. 

But, good land ! loads of hay could pass each other 
here, and droves of dromedaries, and camels, and not 
(touch each other, and then there would be lots of 
room for men and wimmen, and for wagons to rumble, 
and perioguers to float up and down—if perioguers 
could sail on dry land. 

Roomier, handsomer, well-shadeder streets I never 
want to see, nor don’t expect to. Why Jonesville 
streets are like tape compared with ’em; and Loon- 
town and Toad Holler, they are like thread, No. 50 
(allegory). 

Bub Smith wus well acquainted with the Presi¬ 
dent’s hired man, so he let us in without parlay. 

I don’t believe in talkin’ big as a general thing. 
But think’es I, Here I be, a-holdin’ up the dignity of 
Jonesville : and here I be, on a deep, heart-search in 
errent to the Nation. So I said, in words and axents 
a good deal like them I have read of in u Children 
ef the Abbey” and “ Charlotte Temple,”— 


u Is the President of the United States within ?” 

He said he was, but said sunthin’ about his not re¬ 
ceiving calls in the mornings. 

But I says in a very polite way,—for I like to put 
folks at their ease, presidents or peddlers or any¬ 
thing,— 

“ It hain’t no matter at all if he hain’t dressed up ; 
of course he wuzn’t expectin’ company. Josiah don’t 
dress up mornin’s.” 

And then he says something about “ he didn’t know 
but he was engaged.” 

Says I, “ That hain’t no news to me, nor the 
Nation. We have been a-hearin’ that for three years, 
right along. And if he is engaged, it hain’t no good 
reason why he shouldn’t speak to other wimmen, 
—good, honorable married ones too.” 

“ Well,” says he, finally, “ I will take up your 
card.” 

“ No, you won’t!” says I, firmly. “lama Metlio* 
dist! I guess I can start off on a short tower without 
takin’ a pack of cards with me. And if I had ’em 
right here in my pocket, or a set of dominoes, I 
shouldn’t expect to take up the time of the President 
of the United States a-playin’ games at this time of 
the day.” Says I, in deep tones, “ I am a-carrien’ er- 
rents to the President that the world knows not of.” 

He blushed up red ; he was ashamed ; and he said 
“ he would see if I could be admitted.” 


* From “ Sweet Cicely.” Permission of Funk <fc Wagnalls. 












288 


MISS MARIETTA HOLLEY. 




* ^ ^ 

I was jest a-thinkin’ this when the hired man came 
back, and said,— 

“ The President would receive me.” 

“ Wall,” says I, calmly, “ I am ready to be re¬ 
ceived.” 

So I follered him; and he led the way into a 
beautiful room, kinder round, and red-colored, with 
lots of elegant pictures and lookin’-glasses and books. 
* * * ^ * 

He then shook hands with me, and I with him. I, 
too, am a perfect lady. And then he drawed up a 
chair for me with his own hands (hands that grip 
holt of the same helium that G. W. had gripped 
holt of. 0 soul! be calm when I think on’t), and 
asked me to set down ; and consequently I sot. 

I leaned my umberell in a easy, careless position 
against a adjacent chair, adjusted my long green veil 
in long, graceful folds,—I hain’t vain, but I like to 
look well,—and then I at once told him of my errents. 
I told him— 

“ I had brought three errents to him from 
Jonesville,—one for myself, and two for Dorlesky 
Burpy.” 

He bowed, but didn’t say nothin’: he looked tired. 
Josiah always looks tired in the mornin’ when he has 
got his milkin’ and barn-chores done, so it didn't sur¬ 
prise me. And havin’ calculated to tackle him on 
my own errent first, consequently I tackled him. 

I told him how deep my love and devotion to my 
pardner wuz. 

And he said “ he had heard of it.” 

And I says, “ I s’pose so. I s’pose such things 
will spread, bein’ a sort of a rarity. I’d heard that it 
had got out, ’way beyend Loontown, and all round.” 

“ Yes,” he said, “ it was spoke of a good deal.” 

“ Wall,” says I, “ the cast-iron love and devotion I 
feel for that man don’t show off the brightest in 
hours of joy and peace. It towers up strongest in 
dangers and troubles.” And then I went on to tell 
him how Josiah wanted to come there as a senator, 
and what a dangerous place I had always heard 
Washington wuz, and how I had felt it was impossi¬ 
ble for me to lay down on my goose-feather pillow at 
home, in peace and safety, while my pardner was a- 


grapplin’ with dangers of which I did not know the 
exact size and heft. Then, says I, solemnly, “ I ask 
you, not as a politician, but as a human bein’, would 
you dast to let Josiah come?” 

The President didn’t act surprised a mite. And 
finally he told me, what I had always mistrusted, but 
never knew, that Josiah had wrote to him all his poli¬ 
tical views and aspirations, and offered his help to the 
government. And says he, “ I think I know all 
about the man.” 

“ Then,” says I, “ you see he is a good deal like 
other men.” 

And he said, sort o’ dreamily, “ that he was.” 

And then again silence rained. He was a-thinkin’, 
I knew, on all the deep dangers that hedged in 
Josiah Allen and America if he come. And a-musin’ 
on all the probable dangers of the Plan. And a- 
thinkin’ it over how to do jest right in the matter,— 
right by Josiah, right by the nation, right by me. 

Finally the suspense of the moment wore onto me 
too deep to bear, and I says, in almost harrowin’ tones 
of anxiety and suspense,— 

“ Would it be safe for my pardner to come to 
Washington ? Would it be safe for Josiah, safe 
for the nation ? ” Says I, in deeper, mournfuller 
tones,— 

“ Would you—would you dast to let him come?” 

Pity and good feelin’ then seemed to overpower for 
a moment the statesman and courteous diplomat. 

And he said, in gentle, gracious tones, “ If I tell 
you just what I think, I would not like to say it offi¬ 
cially, but would say it in confidence, as from an 
Allen to an Allen.” 

“ Says I, “ It shan’t go no further.” 

And so I would warn everybody that it must not 
be told. 

Then says he, “ I will tell you. I wouldn’t dast.” 

Says I, “ That settles it. If human efforts can 
avail, Josiah Allen will not be United States Sena¬ 
tor.” And says I, “ You have only confirmed my 
fears. I knew, feelin’ as he felt, that it wuzn’t safe 
for Josiah or the nation to have him come.” 

Agin he reminded me that it was told to me in 
confidence, and agin I want to say that it must be 
kep’. 
















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CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. 

AUTHOR OF “LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.” 


E humorous and dialectic literature of America owes more to Charles 
Follen Adams perhaps than to any other contributor who has not 
made literature a business or depended upon his pen for his livelihood. 
There is not a pretentious book of humorous readings or popular 
selections of late years which has not enriched its pages from this 
pleasingly funny man who delineates the German-American 
character and imitates its dialect with an art that is so true to nature as to be 
well-nigh perfection. “The Puzzled Dutchman;” “Mine Vamily;” “Mine Moder- 
in-Law;” “Der Vater Mill;” “Der Drummer,” and, above all, “Dot Leedle Yawcob 
Strauss,” have become classics of their kind and will not soon suffer their author to 
be forgotten. 

Charles Follen Adams was born in Dorchester, Mass., April 21, 1842, where he 
received a common school education, leaving school at fifteen years of age to take a 
position in a business house in Boston. This place he occupied until August, 1862, 
when he enlisted, at the age of twenty, in the Thirteenth Massachusetts Regiment of 
Volunteers, and saw service in a number of hard-fought battles. At Gettysburg, 
in 1863, he was wounded and held a prisoner for three days until the Union forces 
recaptured the town. After the close of the war he resumed business, and succeeded 
in placing himself at the head of a large business house in Boston, where he has 
continued to reside. 

It was not until 1870 that Mr. Adams wrote his first poem, and it was two years 
later that his first dialectic effort, “ The Puzzled Dutchman,” appeared and made 
his name known. From that time he begun to contribute “as the spirit moved him’ 
to the local papers, “Oliver Optic’s Magazine,” and, now and then, to “Scribner’s.” 
In 1876 he became a regular contributor to the “Detroit Free Press,” his “Leedle 
Yawcob Strauss” being published in that paper in June, 1876. For many years 
all his productions were published in that journal, and did much to enhance its 
growing popularity as a humorous paper. 

As a genial, companionable man in business and social circles, Mr. Adams has 
as great distinction among his friends as he holds in the literary world as a humorist. 
His house is one of marked hospitality where the fortunate guest always finds a 

cordial welcome. 

19 p. H. 2b 9 










































29 ° 


CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. 


DER DRUMMER* 


HO puts oup at der pest hotel, 

Und dakes his oysders on der schell, 
Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell ? 
Der drummer. 

Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore, 

Drows down his pundles on der vloor, 

Und nefer schtops to shut der door? 

Der drummer. 

Who dakes me py der handt, und say, 
“Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day?” 

Und goes vor peeseness righdt avay ? 

Der drummer. 

Who shpreads his zamples in a trice, 

Und dells me, “ Look, und see how nice?” 
Und says I get “ der bofctow price?” 

Der drummer. 

Who dells how sheap der goods vas bought, 
Mooch less as vot I goul£ imbort, 



But lets dem go as he vas “ short?” 

Der drummer. 

Who says der tings vas eggstra vine,—- 
“ Vrom Sharmany, ubon der Rhine,”— 
Und sheats me den dimes oudt off. nine? 
Der drummer. 

Who varrants all der goots to suit 
Der gustomers ubon his route , 

Und ven dey gomes dey vas no goot? 

Der drummer. 

Who gomes aroundt ven I been oudt, 
Drinks oup mine bier, and eats mine kraut, 
Und kiss Katrina in der mout’ ? 

Der drummer. 

Who, ven he gomes again dis vay, 

Vill hear vot Pfeiffer has to say, 

Und mit a plack eye goes avay ? 

Der drummer. 




HANS AND FRITZ* 


ANS and Fritz were two Deutschers who 
lived side by side, 

Remote from the world, its deceit and its 
pride: 

With their pretzels and beer the spare moments were 
spent, 

And the fruits of their labor were peace and content. 



When the question arose, the note being made, 

“ Vich von holds dot baper until it vas baid?” 

“ You geeps dot,” says Fritz, “und den you vill knavi 
You owes me dot money.” Says Hans, “ Dot ish so: 
Dot makes me remempers I half dot to bay, 

Und I prings you der note und der money some day.” 


Hans purchased a horse of a neighbor one day, 
And, racking a part of the Geld ,—as they say,— 
Made a call upon Fritz to solicit a loan 
To help him to pay for his beautiful roan. 

Fritz kindly consented the money to lend, 

And gave the required amount to his friend; 
Remarking,—his own simple language to quote,— 
“ Berhaps it vas bedder ve make us a note.” 

The note was drawn up in their primitive way,— 

“ I, Hans, gets from Fritz feefty tollars to-day ;” 


A month had expired, when Hans, as agreed, 

Paid back the amount, and from debt he was freed. 
Says Fritz, “ Now dot settles us.” Hans replies, 
“ Yaw: 

Now who dakes dot baper accordings by law ? ” 

“ I geeps dot now, aind’t it? ” says Fritz; “ den you 
see, 

I alvays remempers you paid dot to me.” 

Says Hans, “ Dot ish so : it vas now sliust so blain, 
Dot I knows vot to do ven I porrows again.” 


-* 0 «“ 


YAWCOB STRAUSS* 



IIAF von funny leedle poy, 

Yot gomes schust to mine knee ; 

Der queerest schap, der createst rogue, 
As efer you dit see, 


He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dinga 
In all barts off der house: 

But vot off dot ? he vas mine son, 

Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. 


33 


* Special Permission of the Author. 


























CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. 


291 


He get der measles und der mumbs, 

Und eferyding dot’s oudt; 

He sbills mine glass off lager bier, 

Poots schnuff indo mine kraut. 

He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese.— 
Dot vas der roughest chouse : 

Td dake dot vrom no oder poy 
But leedle Yawcob Strauss. 

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, 

Und cuts mine cane in dwo, 

To make der schticks to beat it mit.— 
Mine cracious dot vas drue ! 

I dinks mine bed vas schplit abart, 

He kicks oup sooch a touse: 

But nefer mind ; der poys vas few 
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. 


He asks me questions sooch as dese: 

Who baints mine nose so red ? 

Who vas it cut dot schmoodth blace oudt 
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed ? 

Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp 
Veneer der glim 1 douse. 

How gan I all dose dings eggsblain 
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss? 

I somedimes dink I schall go vild 
Mit sooch a grazy poy. 

Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest, 
Und beaceful dimes enshoy ; 

But ven h#vas ashieep in ped, 

So guiet as a mouse, 

I prays der Lord, “ Dake anyding, 

But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss.” 


MINE MODER-IN-LAW* 


|wj§|HERE vas many qveer dings in dis land of 
der free, 

I neffer could qvite understand ; 

Der beoples dhey all seem so deefrent to me 
As dhose in mine own faderland. 

Dhey gets blendy droubles, und indo mishaps 
Mitout der least bit off a cause ; 

Und vould you pelief it? dhose mean Yangee sliaps 
Dhey fights mit dheir moder-in-laws ? 



Id vas von off dhose voman’s righdts vellers I been 
Dhere vas noding dot’s mean aboudt me; 

Vhen der oldt lady vishes to run dot masheen, 

Vhy, I shust let her run id, you see. 

Und vhen dot shly Yawcob vas cutting some dricks 
(A block oil’ der oldt chip he vas, yaw !) 

Ef he goes for dot shap like some dousand ofl 
bricks, 

Dot’s all righdt! She’s mine moder-in-law. 


! Shust dink off a vhite man so vicked as dot! 
Vhy not gife der oldt lady a show ? 

Who vas it gets oup, ven der nighdt id vas hot, 
Mit mine baby, I shust like to know ? 

Und dhen in dher vinter vhen Katrine vas sick 
Und der mornings vas shnowy und raw, 

Who made righdt avay oup dot fire so quick? 
Vhy, dot vas mine moder-in-law. 


Veek oudt und veek in, id vas always der same, 
Dot vomen vas boss off der house; 

But, dehn, neffer mindt! I vas glad dot she came 
She vas kind to mine young Yawcob Strauss. 
Und ven dhere vas vater to get vrom der spring 
Und firevood to shplit oup und saw 
She vas velcome to do it. Dhere’s not anyding 
Dot’s too good for mine moder-in-law. 


-*<>♦- 


Y T AWCOB’S DRIBULATIONS. f 


(SEQUEL TO “LEEDLE 

AYBE dot you don’d rememper, 

Eighdeen—dwendy years ago, 

How I dold aboudt mine Yawcob— 

Dot young rashkell, don’t you know, 

Who got schicken-box und measles; 

Filled mine bipe mit Limburg sheeze ; 

Cut mine cane oup indo dhrum-schticks, 
Und blay all sooch dricks as dhese. 

Veil! dhose times dhey vas been ofer, 

Und dot son off mine, py shings ! 

Now vas taller as hees fader, 

Und vas oup to all sooch dhings 



YAWCOB STRAUSS.”) 

Like shimnasdic dricks und pase pall; 
Und der oder day he say 
Dot he boxes mit u adthledics,” 
Somevheres ofer on Back Bay. 

Times vas deeferent, now, I dold you, 
As vhen he vas been a lad; 

Dhen Katrine she make hees drowsers 
Vrom der oldt vones off hees dad ; 
Dhey vas cut so full und baggy, 

Dot id dook more as a fool 
To find oudt eef he vas going, 

Or vas coming home vrom school. 


* Copyright, Harper & Bros, f Copyright, Leo & Chopard 

























292 


CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. 


Now, dhere va-s no making ofer 
Off mine clothes to make a suit 
For dot poy—der times vas schanged ; 

“ Der leg vas on der oder boot; ” 

For vhen hees drowsers dhey gets dhin, 
Und sort off “schlazy” roundt der knee, 
Dot Mrs. Strauss she dake der sceessors 
Und she cuts dhem down for me. 

Shust der oder day dot Yawcob 
Gife me von electric shock, 

Yhen he say he vants fife-hundord 
To invesht in railroadt schtock. 

Dlien I dell him id vas beddhar 
Dot he leaf der schtocks alone, 

Or some fellar dot vas schmardter 
Dake der meat und leaf der bone. 

Und vhen I vas got oxcited, 

Und say he get “ schwiped ” und fooled, 
Dhen he say he haf a “ pointer ” 

Yrom soom frendts off Sage und Gould; 


Und dot ne vas on “ rock bottom ; ” 

Had der “ inside drack ” on “ Atch—* n 
Dot vas too mooch fur hees fader, 

Und I coom oup to der scratch. 

Dhen in bolitics he dabbles, 

Und all qvesdions, great und schmall, 
Make no deeferent to dot Yawcob— 

For dot poy he knows id all. 

Und he say dot dhose oldt fogies 
Must be laid oup on der shelf, 

Und der governors und mayors 
Should pe young men—like himself. 

Veil! I vish I vas dransborted 
To dhose days of long ago, 

Vhen dot schafer beat der milk-ban, 

Und sckkydoodled droo der schnow. 

I could schtand der mumbs und measles, 
Und der ruckshuns in der house; 

Budt mine presendt dribulations 
Vas too mooch for Meester Strauss. 


-+0+- 


THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN* 


The copy for this selection was forwarded to us by the author himself with the notation on the side 

“My First Dialect Poem.” 



’M a broken-hearted Deutscher, 

Vots villed mit crief unt shame. 

I dells vou vot der drouble ish— 

%/ 

I does n’t know my name. 


Von of der poys was Yawcob 
Und Hans der Oder’s name; 
But den it made no different— 
Ve both got called der same. 


You dinks it ferry vunny, eh ? 

Ven you der story hear. 

You vill not wonder den so mooch, 
It vas so shtrange und queer. 


Veil, von of us got tead— 

Yaw, Mynheer, dat is so; 

But vedder Hans or Yawcob, 
Mein mudder she don’t know. 


Mein mudder had dwo liddle dwins— 
Dey vas me und mein brudder; 

Ve lookt so very mooch alike 
No von knew vich from toder. 


Und so I am in droubles; 

I gan’t git droo mein hed 
Vedder I’m Hans vot’s living 
Or Yawcob vot is tead. 


K>*~ 


DEB OAK AND DER VINE.f 


DON’D vas preaching voman’s righdts, 
Or anyding like dot, 

Und I likes to see all beoples 
Shust gondented mit dheir lot; 
Budt I vants to gondradict dot shap 
Dot made dis lee die shoke ; 

“A voman vas der glinging vine, 
Und man, der shturdy oak.” 


Berhaps, somedimes, dot may be drue; 

Budt, den dimes oudt off nine, 

I find me oudt dot man himself 
Vas peen der glinging vine ; 

Und ven hees friendts dhey all vas gone, 
Und he vas shust “ tead proke,” 

Dot’s vhen der voman shteps righdt in, 
Und peen der shturdy oak. 



* Copyright, Lee k Shepard. 

f From “ Dialect Ballads.” Copyright, 1887, by Harper k Brothers. 

























CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. 


293 


Shust go oup to der paseball groundts 
Und see dhose “ shturdy oaks” 

All planted roundt ubon der seats— 

Shust hear dheir laughs and shokes ! 

Dhen see dhose vomens at der tubs, 

Mit glothes oudt on der lines; 

Yhich vas der shturdy oaks, mine friendts, 
Und vliich der glinging vines? 

Yen sickness in der householdt comes, 

Und veeks und veeks he shtays, 

Who vas id fighdts him mitoudt resdt, 
Dhose veary nighdts und days ? 

Who beace und gomfort alvays prings, 

Und cools dot fefered prow ? 

M ore like id vas der tender vine 
Dot oak he glings to, now. 


“ Man vants budt leedle here below,” 

Der boet von time said ; 

Dliere’s leedle dot man he don’d vant, 

I dink id means, inshted ; 

Und ven der years keep rolling on, 

Dheir cares und droubles pringing, 

He vants to pe der shturdy oak, 

Und, also, do der glinging. 

Maype, vhen oaks dhey gling some more, 
Und don’d so shturdy peen, 

Der glinging vines dhey haf some shance 
To helb run life’s masheen. 

In helt und sickness, shoy und pain, 

In calm or shtormy veddher, 

’Twas beddher dot dhose oaks und vines 
Should alvays gling togeddher. 











EDGAR WILSON NYE. 



(BILL NYE.) 

• « - . 

MONG those who have shaken the sides of the fun-loving citizens of 
the United States and many in the old world with genuine wit and 
droll humor, our familiar and purely American “Bill Nye” must be 
numbered. 

Edgar Wilson Nye was a born “funny man” whose humor was 
as irrepressible as his disposition to breathe air. The very face of 
the man, while far from being homely, as is frequently judged from comic pictures 
of him, was enough to provoke the risibility of the most sedate and unsmiling citi¬ 
zens in any community. When Mr. Nye walked out on the platform to exhibit in 
his plain manner a few samples of his “Baled Hay,” or offer what he was pleased 
to term a few “Remarks,” or to narrate one or more of the tales told by those famous 
creatures of his imagination known as “The Forty Liars,”—before a word was 
uttered an infectious smile often grew into a roaring laugh. 

Edgar Wilson Nye was born at Shirley, Maine, 1850. His parents removed to 
Wisconsin, and thence to Wyoming Territory when he was but a boy, and he grew 
up amid the hardships and humorous aspects of frontier life, which he has so amus¬ 
ingly woven into the warp and the woof of his early “yarns.” Mr. Nye studied 
law and was admitted to the bar in 1876; but practiced his profession only one year. 
Afterwards lie reported for the newspapers, and, in 1878, began to write regularly 
a weekly humorous letter for the Sunday papers in the West. This he continued 
to do for several years, receiving good compensation therefor, and his reputation as 
a humorous writer grew steadily and rapidly. 

In 1884, Mr. Nye came to New York and organized the Nye Trust, or Syndi¬ 
cate, through which a weekly letter from him should simultaneously appear in the 
journals of the principal cities of the Union. This increased his fame; and during 
the later years of his life he was engaged much of his time on the lecture platform, 
sometimes alone, and sometimes in company with other prominent authors. He 
and the poet, James AVhitcomb Riley, did considerable touring together and were 
enthusiastically welcomed wherever they went, the people invariably turning out in 
large numbers to enjoy a feast of fun and good feeling which this pair of prominent 
and typical Westerners never failed to treat them to. 

Among the most humorous of Mr. Nye’s recent writings were his famous letters 
from Buck’s Shoals, North Carolina, where, in his imagination, he established him¬ 
self as a southern farmer, and dealt out his rural philosophy and comments on cur- 

294 















































EDGAR WILSON NYE. 


295 


rent events to the delight, not only of the farmers—many of whom imagined that 
he was really one of them—but of every class of readers throughout the country. 

In 1894 Mr. Nye turned his attention to another branch of humor, and brought 
out “Bill Nye’s History of the United States.” The drollery and humor of this 
work is unsurpassed—the interest and delight of the reader being greatly enhanced 
by the fact that he followed the chronological thread of the real historic narrative 
on which he pours the sidelights of his side-splitting humor. The success of this 
book was so great that Mr. Nye was preparing to go abroad to write humorous 
histories of England and other European countries when he suddenly died in 1896, 
in the 47th year of his age. 

After his death Mrs. Nye went abroad, stopping in Berlin for the education of her 
children. The royalty on “Bill Nye’s” books brings an ample support for his 
family. 




THE WILD COW. 


(clipping from newspaper.) 


HEN I was young and used to roam around 
over the country, gathering water-melons 
in the light of the moon, I used to think 
I could milk anybody’s cow, but I do not think so 
now. I do not milk a cow now unless the sign is 
right, and it hasn’t been right for a good many years. 
The last cow I tried to milk was a common cow, 
born in obscurity; kind of a self-made cow. I 
remember her brow was low, but she wore her tail 
high and she was haughty, oh, so haughty. 

I made a common-place remark to her, one that is 
used in the very best of society, one that need not 
have given offence anywhere. I said, “ So ”—and 
she “ soed.” Then I told her to “ hist ” and she 
histed. But I thought she overdid it. She put too 
much expression in it. 



Just then I heard something crash through the 
window of the barn and fall with a dull, sickening 
thud on the outside. The neighbors came to see 
what it was that caused the noise. They found 
that I had done it in getting through the window. 

I asked the neighbors if the barn was still stand¬ 
ing. They said it was. Then I asked if the cow was 
injured much. They said she seemed to be quite 
robust. Then I requested them to go in and calm 
the cow a little, and see if they could get my plug 
hat off her horns. 

I am buying all my milk now of a milkman. I 
select a gentle milkman who will not kick, and feel 
as though I«could trust him. Then, if he feels as 
though he could trust me, it is all right. 

•o* - 


MR. WHISK’S TRUE LOVE. 


0 she said to him : “ Oh, darling, I fear 

that my wealth hath taught thee to love 
me, and if it were to take wings unto 
itself thou wouldst also do the same.” 

“ Nay, Gwendolin,” said Mr. Whisk, softly, as he 
drew her head down upon his shoulder and tickled 
the lobe of her little cunning ear with the end of his 
moustache, “ I love not thy dollars, but thee alone. 
Also elsewhere. If thou doubtest me, give thy 
wealth to the poor. Give it to the Worlds lair. 
Give it to the Central Pacific Railroad. Give it to 
any one who is suffering.” 



“No,” she unto him straightway did make answer, 
“ I could not do that, honey.” 

“ Then give it to your daughter,” said Mr. Whisk, 
“ if you think I am so low as to love alone your yellow 
dross.” He then drew himself up to his full height. 

She flew to his arms like a frightened dove that 
has been hit on the head with a rock. Folding her 
warm round arms about his neck, she sobbed with 
joy and gave her entire fortune to her daughter. 

Mr. Whisk then married the daughter, and went 
on about his business. I sometimes think that, at the 
best, man is a great coarse thing. 














296 


EDGAR WILSON NYE. 


THE DISCOVERY OF NEW YORK. 

PROM “ BILL NYE’S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES, 1894.” 
By Permission of J. B. Lippincott Co. 





E author will now refer to the discovery of 
the Hudson River and the town of New 
York via Fort Lee and the 125th Street 

Ferry. 

New York was afterwards sold for twenty-four dol¬ 
lars,—the whole island. When I think of this I go 
into my family gallery, which I also use as a swear 
room, and tell those ancestors of mine what I think 
of them. Where were they when New York was 



sold for twenty-four dollars? Were they having 
their portraits painted by Landseer, or their disposi¬ 
tion taken by Jeffreys, or having their Little Lord 
Fauntleroy clothes made? 

Do not encourage them to believe that they will 
escape me in future years. Some of them died un- 
regenorate, and are now, I am told, in a country 
where they may possibly be damned; and I will at¬ 
tend to the others personally. 



Twenty-four dollars for New York! Why, my 
Croton-water tax on one house and lot with fifty 
feet four and one-fourth inches front is fifty-nine dol¬ 
lars and no questions asked. Why, you can’t get a 
voter for that now. 

Henry—or Hendrik—Hudson was an English 
navigator, of whose birth and early history nothing 
is known definitely, hence his name is never men¬ 
tioned in many of the best homes of New York. 

In 1607 he made a voyage in search of the 
North West Passage. In one of his voyages he dis¬ 
covered Cape Cod, and later on the Hudson Ptiver. 

This was one hundred and seventeen years after 
Columbus discovered America ; which shows that the 
discovering business was not pushed as it should have 
been by those who had it in charge. 

Hudson went up the ’river as far as Albany, but, 


finding no one there whom he knew, he hastened 
back as far as 209th Street West, and anchored. 

He discovered Hudson Bay and Hudson Strait, 
and made other j ourneys by water, though aquatting 
was then in its infancy. Afterwards his sailors 
became mutinous, and set Hendrik and his son, with, 
seven infirm sailors, afloat. 

Ah ! Whom have we here ? 

It is Hendrik Hudson, who discovered the Hud¬ 
son River. 

Here he has just landed at the foot of 209th 
Street, New York, where he offered the Indians 
liquor, but they refused. 

How 209th. Street has changed ! 

The artist has been fortunate in getting the expres¬ 
sion of the Indians in the act of refusing. Mr. Hud¬ 
son’s great reputation lies in the fact that he dis- 




























EDGAR WILSON NYE. 


297 


covered the river which bears his name; but thel 
blinking mind will at once regard the discovery of an 
ndian who does not drink as far more wonderful. 

Some historians say that this special delegation 
was swept away afterwards by a pestilence, whilst 
others, commenting on the incident, maintain that 
Hudson lied. 

It is the only historical question regarding America 
not fully settled by this book. 

Nothing more was heard by him till lie turned up 
in a thinking part in “ Rip Van Winkle.” 

Many claims regarding the discovery of various 
parts of the United States had been previously made. 
The Cabots had discovered Labrador; the Spaniards 
the southern part of the United States; the Norse¬ 
men had discovered Minneapolis ; and Columbus had 
discovered San Salvador and had gone home to meet 
a ninety-day note due in Palos for the use of the 
Pinta, which he had hired by the hour. 

But we are speaking of the discovery of New 
York. 

About this time a solitary horseman might have 
been seen at West 209th Street, clothed in a little 
brief authority, and looking out to the west as he 
petulantly spoke in the Tammany dialect, then in the 
language of the blank-verse Indian. He began : 
“ Another day of anxiety has passed, and yet we 
have not been discovered ! The Great Spirit tells me 
in the thunder of the surf and the roaring cataract of 
the Harlem that within a week we will be discovered 
for the first time.” 

As he stands there aboard of his horse one sees 
that he is a chief in every respect, and in life’s great 
drama would naturally occupy the middle of the 
stage. It was at this moment that Hudson slipped 
down the river from Albany past Fort Lee, and, 
dropping a nickle in the slot at 125th Street, weighed 


his anchor at that place. As soon as he had landed 
and discovered the city, he was approached by the 
chief, who said : u We gates. I am on the com¬ 
mittee to show you our little town. I suppose you 
have a power of attorney, of course, for discovering 
us?” 

“ les,” said Hudson. “ As Columbus used to say 
when he discovered San Salvador, ‘I do it by the 
right vested in me by my sovereigns.’ ‘ That over¬ 
sizes my pile by a sovereign and a half,’ says one of 
the natives ; and so, if you have not heard it, there 
is a good thing for one of your dinner-speeches 
here.” 

“ \ ery good,” said the chief, as they jogged down¬ 
town on a swift Sixth Avenue elevated train towards 
the wigwams on 14th Street, and going at the rate of 
four miles an hour. “ We do not care especially who 
discovers us so long as w r e hold control of the city 
organization. How about that, Hank ? ” 

“ That will be satisfactory,” said Mr. Hudson, 
taking a package of imported cheese and eating it, so 
that they could have the car to themselves. 

“ We will take the departments, such as Police, 
Street-cleaning, etc., etc., etc., w r hile you and Columbus 
get your pictures on the currency and have your 
graves mussed up on anniversaries. We get the two- 
moment horses and the country chateaux on the 
Bronx. Sabe?” 

“ That is, you do not care whose portrait is on the 
currency,” said Hudson, “ so you get the currency.” 

Said the man, “That is the sense of the meeting.” 

Thus was New York discovered via Albany and 
Fort Lee, and five minutes after the two touched 
glasses, the brim of the schoppin and the Manhattan 
cocktail tinkled together, and New York was in¬ 
augurated. 












JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 

(“ UNCLE REMUS.”) 

EL CHANDLER HARRIS has called himself “ an accidental 
author,” for while living on a plantation as a typesetter on a country 
newspaper he became familiar with the curious myths and animal 
stories of the negroes, and some time in the seventies he printed a 
magazine article on these folk-lore stories, giving at the same time 
some of the stories as illustration. 

This article attracted attention and revealed to the writer the fact that the stories 
had a decided literary value, and his main literary work has been the elaboration of 
these myths. 

The stories of “ Uncle Remus ” are, as almost everyone knows, not creations of 
the author’s fancy, but they are genuine folk-lore tales of the negroes, and strangely 
enough many of these stories are found in varying forms among the American 
Indians, among the Indians along the Amazon and in Brazil, and they are even 
found in India and Siam, which fact has called out learned discussions of the origin 

• • -i o 

and antiquity of the stories and the possible connection of the races. 

Our author was born in Eatonton, a little village in Georgia, December 9, 1848, 
in very humble circumstances. He was remarkably impressed, while still very 
young, with the “ Vicar of Wakefield,” and he straightway began to compose little 
tales of his own. 

In 1862 he went to the office of the “ Countryman,” a rural weekly paper in 
Georgia, to learn typesetting. It was edited and published on a large plantation, 
and the negroes of this and the adjoining plantations furnished him with the material 
out of which the “ Uncle Remus” stories came. 

While learning to set type the young apprentice occasionally tried his hand at 
composing, and not infrequently he slipped into the “ Countryman ” a little article, 
composed and printed, without ever having been put in manuscript form. 

The publication of an article on the folk-lore of the negroes in “ Lippincott’s 
Magazine ” was the beginning of his literary career, and the interest this awakened 
stimulated him to develop these curious animal stories. 

Many of the stories were first printed as articles in the Atlanta “ Constitution,” 
and it was soon seen by students of myth-literature that these stories were very sig¬ 
nificant and important in their bearing on general mythology. 

For the child they have a charm and an interest as “ good stories,” and they are 
told with rare skill and power, but for the student of ethnology they have special 

298 



1 






































JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 


299 


value as throwing some light on the probable relation of the negroes with other races 
which tell similar folk-tales. 

Mi. Harris lias studied and pursued the profession of law, though he has now for 

y eais .' i )eei ? 01le the editors of the Atlanta “ Constitution/’ for which many 
ot his contributions have been originally written. 

He is also a frequent contributor both of prose and poetry to current literature, 
and he is the author of the following books : “Uncle Remus, His Songs and His 
Sayings; the Folk-lore of the Old Plantation ” (New York, 1880), “Nights With 
Uncle Remus” (Boston, 1883), “Mingo and Other Sketches” (1883). 


-♦o#- 


MR. RABBIT, MR. FOX, AND MR. BUZZARD* 

(FROM “ UNCLE REMUS.”) 


NE evening when the little boy whose nights 
with Uncle Remus are as entertaining 

o 

as those Arabian ones of blessed memory, 
had finished supper and hurried out to sit with his 
venerable patron, he found the old man in great 
glee. Indeed, Uncle Remus was talking and laugh¬ 
ing to himself at such a rate that the little boy was 
afraid he had company. The truth is, Uncle Remus 
had heard the child coming, and when the rosy- 
cheeked chap put his head in at the door, was en¬ 
gaged in a monologue, the burden of which seemed to 
be— 

“ Ole Molly Har’, 

W’at you doin’ dar, 

Settin’ in de cornder 
Smokin’ yo’ seegyar ? ” 

As a matter of course this vague allusion reminded 
the little boy of the fact that the wicked Fox was 
still in pursuit of the Rabbit, and he immediately put 
his curiosity in the shape of a question. 

“ Uncle Remus, did the Rabbit have to go clean 
away when he got loose from the Tar-Baby ? ” 

“ Bless grashus, honey, dat he didn’t. Who ? 
Him ? You dunno nuthin’ ’tall ’bout Brer Rabbit 
ef dat’s de way you puttin’ ’im down. Wat he 
gwine ’way fer? He mouter stayed sorter close 
twel the pitch rub off’n his ha’r, but twern’t menny 
days ’fo’ he wuz loping up en down de naberhood 
same as ever, en I dunno ef he wern’t mo’ sassier 
dan befo’. 

“ Seem like dat de tale ’bout how he got mixt up 
wid de Tar-Baby got ’roun’ mongst de nabers. 


Leas’ways, Miss Meadows en de girls got win’ un’ it, 
en de nex’ time Brer Rabbit paid um a visit, Miss 
Meadows tackled ’im ’bout it, en de gals sot up a 
monstus gigglement. Brer Rabbit, he sot up des ez 
cool ez a cowcumber, he did, en let ’em run on.” 

“Who was Miss Meadows, Uncle Remus?” in¬ 
quired the little boy. 

“ Don’t ax me, honey. She wuz in de tale, Miss 
Meadows en de gals wuz, en de tale I give you like 
hi’t wer’ gun ter me. Brer Rabbit, he sot dar, he 
did, sorter lam’ like, en den bimeby he cross his legs, 
he did, and wink his eye slow, en up en say, sezee: 

“ ‘Ladies, Brer Fox wuz my daddy’s ridin’-hoss 
for thirty year ; maybe mo’, but thirty year dat I 
knows un,’ sezee; en den he paid um his specks, en 
tip his beaver, en march off, he did, dez ez stiff en 
ez stuck up ez a fire-stick. 

“ Nex’ day, Brer Fox cum a callin’, and w’en he 
gun fer to laff ’bout Brer Rabbit, Miss Meadows en 
de gals, dey ups and tells im ’bout w’at Brer Rabbit 
say. Den Brer Fox grit his toof sho’ nuff, he did, 
en he look mighty dumpy, but when he riz fer to go 
he up en say, sezee; 

“ ‘ Ladies, I ain’t ’sputing w’at you say, but I’ll 
make Brer Rabbit chaw up his words en spit um out 
right yer whar you kin see ’im,’ sezee, en wid dat off 
Brer Fox marcht. 

“ Pin w’en he got in de big road, he shuck de dew 
off’n his tail, en made a straight shoot fer Brer 
Rabbit’s house. W en he got dar, Brer Rabbit wuz 
spectin’ un him, en de do’ wuz shut fas’. Brer Fox 
knock. Nobody ain’t ans’er. Brer Fox knock. No* 



* Copyright, George Routledge & Sons. 










300 


JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 


body ans’er. Den he knock agin—blam! blam ! 
Den Brer Rabbit holler out, mighty weak: 

44 4 Is dat you, Brer Fox? I want you ter run en 
fetch de doctor. Dat bit er parsley w’at I e’t dis 
mawnin’ is gittin’ ’way wid me. Do, please, Brer 
Fox, run quick,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 

“ 4 I come atter you, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, 
sezee. 4 Dere’s gwinter be a party up at Miss 
Meadow’s,’ sezee. 4 All de gals’ll be dere, en I 
prornus’ dat I’d fetch you. De gals, dey ’lowed dat 
hit wouldn’t be no party ’ceppin I fotch you,’ sez 
Brer Fox, sezee. 

44 Den Brer Rabbit say he wuz too sick, en Brer 
Fox say he wuzzent, en dar dey had it up and down 
sputin’ en contendin’. Brer Rabbit say he can’t 
walk. Brer Fox say he tote ’im. Brer Rabbit say 
how? Brer Fox say in his arms. Brer Rabbit say 
he drap ’im. Brer Fox ’low he won’t. Bimeby 
Brer Rabbit say he go ef Brer Fox tote ’im on his 
back. Brer Fox say he would. Brer Rabbit say he 
can’t ride widout a saddle. Brer Fox say he git de 
saddle. Brer Rabbit say he can’t set in saddle less 
he have a bridle for to hoF by. Brer Fox say he 
git de bridle. Brer Rabbit say he can’t ride widout 
bline bridle, kaze Brer Fox be shy in’ at stumps ’long 
de road, en fling im off. Brer Fox say he git bline 
bridle. Den Brer Rabbit say he go. Den Brer Fox 
say he ride Brer Rabbit mos’ up to Miss Meadows’s, 
en den he could git down en walk de balance ob de 
way. Brer Rabbit ’greed, en den Brer Fox lipt out 
atter de saddle en de bridle. 

Co’se Brer Rabbit know de game dat Brer Fox 
wuz fixin’ fer ter play, en he ’termin’ fer ter out-do 
’im; en by de time he koam his h’ar en twis’ his 
mustarsh, en sorter rig up, yer come Brer Fox, saddle 
and bridle on, en lookin’ ez peart ez a circus pony. 
He trot up ter de do’ en stan’ dar pawin’ de ground 
en chompin’ de bit same like sho’ nuff hos, en Brer 
Rabbit he mount, he did, en day amble off. Brer 
Fox can’t see behime wid de bline bridle on, but 
bimeby he feel Brer Rabbit raise one er his foots. 

44 4 W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit ? ’ sezee. 

44 ‘Short ain’ de lef stir’p, Brer Fox,’ sezee. 

44 Bimeby Brer Rabbit raise de udder foot. 

44 4 W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit ?’ sezee. 

44 4 Pullin’ down my pants, Brer Fox,’ sezee. 

44 All de time, bless grashus, honey, Brer Rabbit 


was puttin’ on his spurrers, en w’en dey got close tc 
Miss Meadows’s, whar Brer Rabbit wuz to git off en 
Brer Fox made a motion fer ter stan’ still, Brer 
Rabbit slap the spurrers inter Brer Fox flanks, en 
you better b’lieve he got over groun’. W’en dey 
got ter de house, Miss Meadows en all do girls wuz 
settin’ on de peazzer, en stidder stoppin’ at de gate 
Brer Rabbit rid on by, he did, en den come gallopin’ 
down de road en up ter de hoss-rack, w’ich he hitch 
Brer Fox at, en den he santer inter de house, he did, 
en shake han’s wid de gals, en set dar, smokin’ his 
seegyar same ez a town man. Bimeby he draw in 
long puff, en den let hit out in a cloud, en squar his- 
se’f back, en holler out, he did: 

4 4 4 Ladies, ain’t I done tell you Brer Fox wuz de 
ridin’ hoss fer our fambly ? He sorter losin’ his gait 
now, but I speck I kin fetch ’im all right in a mont’ 
or so,’ sezee. 

44 En den Brer Rabbit sorter grin, he did, en de 
gals giggle, en Miss Meadows, she praise up de pony, 
en dar wuz Brer Fox hitch fas’ ter de rack, en 
couldn’t he’p kisse’f.” 

44 Is that all, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy, 
as the old man paused. 

44 Dat ain’t all, honey, but ’twont do fer to give 
out too much cloff for ter cut one pa’r pants,” replied 
the old man sententiously. 

When 44 Miss Sally’s ” little boy went to Uncle 
Remus the next night, he found the old man in a 
bad humor. 

44 1 ain t tellin’ no tales ter bad chilluns,” said 
Uncle Remus curtly. 

44 But, Pncle Remus, I ain’t bad,” said the little 
boy plaintively. 

44 Who dat chunkin’ dem chickens dis mawnin’ ? 
Who dat knockin’ out fokes’s eyes wid dat Yaller- 
bammer sling des ’fo’ dinner ? Who dat sickin’ dat 
pinter puppy atter my pig ? Who dat scatterin’ my 
ingun sets ? W ho dat flingin’ rocks on top er my 
house, w’ich a little mo’ en one un em would er drap 
spang on my head ! ” 

44 Well, now. Uncle Remus, I didn’t go to do it. I 
won’t do so any more. Please, Uncle Remus, if you 
will tell me, 111 run to the house, and bring you 
some tea-cakes.” 

44 Seein’ urn’s better’n hearin’ tell un em,” replied 
the old man, the severity of his countenance relax- 





JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 


.301 


ing somewhat; but the little boy darted out, and in 
a few minutes came running back with his pockets 
full and his hands full. 

“ I lay yo’ mammy ’ll ’spishun dat de rats’ stum- 
mucks is widenin’ in dis naberhood w’en she come 
fer ter count up ’er cakes,” said Uncle Remus, with 
a chuckle. 

“ Lemme see. I mos’ dis’member wharbouts Brer 
Fox and Brer Rabbit wuz.” 

“ The rabbit rode the Fox to Miss Meadows’s and 
hitched him to the horse-rack,” said the little boy. 

‘‘ W’y co’se he did,” said Uncle Remus. “ Co’se 
he did. Well, Brer Rabbit rid Brer Fox up, he did, 
en tied ’im to de rack, en den sot out in the peazzer 
wid de gals a smokin’ er his seegyar wid mo’ proud¬ 
ness dan w’at you mos’ ever see. Dey talk, en dey 
sing, en dey play on de peanner, de gals did, twel 
bimeby hit come time for Brer Rabbit fer to be gwine, 
en he tell um all good-by, en strut out to de boss- 
rack same’s ef he was de king er der patter-rollers, 
en den he mount Brer Fox en ride off. 

“ Brer Fox ain’t sayin’ nuthin’ ’tall. He des rack 
off, he did, en keep his mouf shet, en Brer Rabbit 
know’d der wuz bizness cookin’ up fer him, en he feel 
monstous skittish. Brer Fox amble on twel he git in de 
Ions lane, outer sight er Miss Meadows’s house, en 

O' O 

den he tu’n loose, he did. He rip en he r’ar, en he 
cuss en he swar ; he snort en he cavort.” 

“ What was he doing that for. Uncle Remus?” 
the little boy inquired. 

u He wuz tryin fer ter fling Brer Rabbit off n his 
back, bless yo’ soul! But he des might ez well er 
rastle wid his own shadder. Every time he hump 
hisse’f Brer Rabbit slap de spurrers in ’im, en dar 
dey Lad it up en down. Brer Fox fa’rly to’ up de 
groun’, he did, en he jump so high en he jump so 
quick, dat he mighty nigh snatch his own tail off. 
Dey kep’ on gwine on dis way twel bimeby Brer Fox 
lay down en roll over, he did, en dis sorter unsettle 
Brer Rabbit, but by de time Brer Fox got en his 
footses agin, Brer Rabbit wuz gwine thoo de under- 
bresh mo’ samer dan a race-hoss. Brer Fox, he lit 
out atter ’im, he did, en he push Brer Rabbit so 
close, dat it wuz ’bout all he could do fer ter git in a 
holler tree. Hole too little fer Brer Fox fer to git 
in, en he hatter lay down en res’ en gadder his mine 
tergedder. 


“ While he wuz lay in’ dar, Mr. Buzzard come 
floppin’ long, en seein’ Brer Fox stretch out on the 
groun’, he lit en view the premusses. Den Mr. Buz¬ 
zard sorter shake his wing, en put his head on one 
side, en say to hisse’f like, sezee : 

“ ‘ Brer Fox dead, en I so sorry,’ sezee. 

“ ‘ No I ain’t dead, nudder,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. 

‘ I got ole man Rabbit pent up in yer,’ sezee, • en 
I’m gwineter git im dis time, ef it take twel Chris’- 
mus,’ sezee. 

“ Den, atter some mo’ palaver, Brer Fox make a 
bargain dat Mr. Buzzard wuz ter watch de hole, en 
keep Brer Rabbit dar wiles Brer Fox went atter his 
axe. Den Brer Fox, he lope off, he did, en Mr. 
Buzzard, he tuck up his stan’ at de hole. Bimeby, 
w’en all get still, Brer Rabbit sorter scramble down 
close ter de hole, he did, en holler out: 

“ ‘ Brer Fox ! Oh ! Brer Fox ! ’ 

“ Brer Fox done gone, en nobody say nuthin.’ 
Den Brer Rabbit squall out like he wuz mad: 

“ ‘ You needn’t talk less you wanter,’ sezee ; ‘ I 
knows youer dar, an I ain’t keerin’, sezee. ‘ I dez 
wanter tell you dat I wish mighty bad Brer Tukkey 
Buzzard was here,’ sezee. 

“ Den Mr. Buzzard try to talk like Brer Fox : 

“ ‘ Wat you want wid Mr. Buzzard ? ’ sezee. 

“ ‘ Oh, nuthin’ in ’tickler, ’cep’ dere’s de fattes’ 
gray squir’l in yer dat ever I see,’ sezee, ‘ en ef Brer 
Tukkey Buzzard was ’roun’ he’d be mighty glad fer 
ter git ’im,’ sezee. 

“ ‘ How Mr. Buzzard gwine ter git him ? ’ sez de 
Buzzard, sezee. 

“ ‘ Well, dar’s a little hole, roun’ on de udder side 
er de tree,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘ en ef Brer Tuk¬ 
key Buzzard was here so he could take up his stan’ 
dar, sezee, ‘ I’d drive dat squir’l out,’ sezee. 

“ £ Drive ’im out, den,’ sez Mr. Buzzard, sezee, 
‘en I’ll see dat Brer Tukkey Buzzard gits ’im,’ 
sezee. 

“ Den Brer Rabbit kick up a racket, like he wer’ 
drivin’ sumpin’ out, en Mr. Buzzard he rush ’roun 
fer ter ketch de squir’l, en Brer Rabbit, he dash out, 
he did, en he des fly fer home. 

“ Well, Mr. Buzzard he feel mighty lonesome, he 
did, but he done prommust Brer Eox dat he’d stay^ 
en he termin’ fer ter sorter hang ’roun’ en jine in de 
joke. En he ain’t hatter wait long, nudder, kase 




302 


JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 


birneby yer come Brer Fox gallopin’ tlioo de woods 
wid his axe on his shoulder. 

“ ‘ How you speck Brer Babbit gittin’ on, Brer 
Buzzard ? ’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. 

“ ‘ Oh, he in dar,’ sez Brer Buzzard, sezee. ‘ He 
mighty still, dough. I speck he takin’ a nap,’ sezee. 

“ ‘ Den I’m des in time fer te wake ’im up,’ sez 
Brer Fox, sezee. En wid dat he fling off his coat, 
en spit in his han’s, en grab de axe. Den he draw 
back en come down on de tree—pow ! En eve’y 
time he come down wid de axe—pow !—Mr. Buz¬ 
zard, he step high, he did, en hollar out: 

“ ‘ Oh, he in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho.’ 

“ En eve’y time a chip ud fly off, Mr. Buzzard, 
he’d jump, en dodge, en hole his head sideways, he 
would, en holler: 

“ ‘ He in dar, Brer Fox. I done heerd im. He 
in dar, sho.’ 

“ ‘ En Brer Fox, he lammed away at dat holler 
tree, he did, like a man mauling' rails, twel birneby 
atter he done got de tree most’ cut thoo, he stop fer 
ter ketch his bref, en he seed Mr. Buzzard laffin’ be¬ 
hind his back, he did, en right den en dar, widout 
gwine enny fudder, Brer Fox he smelt a rat. But 
Mr. Buzzard, he keep on holler’n: 

“ ‘ He in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho. I done 
seed im.’ 

“ Den Brer Fox, he make like he peepin’ up de 
holler, en he say, sezee: 

“ ‘ Run yer, Brer Buzzard, en look ef dis ain’t 
Brer Rabbit’s foot hanging down yer.’ 

“ En Mr. Buzzard, he come steppin’ up, he did, 
same ez ef he were treddin’ on kurkle-burrs, en he 
stick his head in de hole ; en no sooner did he done 
dat dan Brer Fox grab ’im*. Mr. Buzzard flap his 
wings, en scramble roun’ right smartually, he did, 
but twan nc use. Brer Fox had de ’vantage er de 


grip, he did, en he hilt ’im right down ter de groun’. 
Den Mr. Buzzard squall out, sezee: 

“ ‘ Lemrne ’ione, Brer Fox. Tu n me loose,’ sezee - , 
‘ Brer Rabbit’ll git out. Youer gittin’ close at ’im,’ 
sezee, ‘ en leb’m mo’ licks 11 fetch im,’ sezee. 

“ ‘ I’m nigher ter you, Brer Buzzard,’ sez Brer 
Fox, sezee, ‘ dan I’ll be ter Brer Rabbit dis day,’ 
sezee. ‘ Wat you fool me fer? ’ sezee. 

“ 1 Lemme lone, Brer Fox,’ sez Mr. Buzzard, 
sezee; ‘ my ole ’oman waitin’ for me. Brer Rabbit 
in dar,’ sezee, 

“ Dar’s a bunch er his fur on dat black-be’y bush,’ 
sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘ en dat ain’t de way he come,’ 
sezee. 

“ Den Mr. Buzzard up’n tell Brer Fox how ’twuz, 
en he low’d, Mr. Buzzard did, dat Brer Rabbit wuz 
de low-downest w’atsizname w’at he ever run up wid. 
Den Brer Fox say, sezee : 

“ ‘ Dat’s needer here ner dar, Brer Buzzard,’ sezee. 
‘I lef’ you yer fer ter watch dish yer hole en I lef’ 
Brer Rabbit in dar. I comes back en I fines you at 
de hole, en Brer Rabbit ain’t in dar,’ sezee. ‘ I’m 
gwinter make you pay fer’t. I done bin tampered 
wid twel plum down ter de sap sucker’ll set on a log 
en sassy me. I’m gwinter fling you in a bresh-heap 
en burn you up,’ sezee. 

“ £ Ef you fling me on der fier, Brer Fox, I’ll fly 
’way,’ sez Mr. Buzzard, sezee. 

‘“Well, den, I’ll settle yo’ hash right now,’ sez 
Brer Fox, sezee, en wid dat he grab Mr. Buzzard by 
de tail, he did, en make fer ter dash ’im ’gin de 
groun’, but des ’bout dat time de tail fedders come 
out, en Mr. Buzzard sail off like wunner dese yer 
berloons, en ez he riz, he holler back: 

“ ‘ You gimme good start, Brer Fox,’ sezee. en 
Brer Fox sot dar en watch ’im fly outer sight.” 








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EOBERT J. BURDETTE. 



HE American people have a kindly feeling for the men who make 
them laugh, and in no other country does a humorist have a more 
appreciative public. The result has been, that in a country in which 
the average native has a clearly marked vein of humor, the genuine 
“ funny man ” is always sure of a hearty welcome. We have a long 
list of writers and lecturers who have gained a wide popularity 
through their mirth-provoking powers, and “ Bob Burdette ” holds an honorable 
place in this guild of “ funny men.” 

He was born in Greensborough, Pennsylvania, July 30, 1844, though he 
removed early in life to Peoria, Ill., where he received his education in the public 
schools. 

He enlisted in the Civil War and served as a private from 1862 to the end of 
the war. 

He began his journalistic career on the Peoria “ Transcript,” and, after periods of 
editorial connection with other local newspapers, he became associate editor of the 
Burlington “ Hawkeye,” Iowa. His humorous contributions to this* journal were 
widely copied and they gave him a general reputation. His reputation as a writer 
had prepared the way for his success as a lecturer, and in 1877 he entered the lec¬ 
ture field, in which he has been eminently successful. He has lectured in nearly all 
the cities of the United States, and he never fails to amuse his listeners. 

He is a lay preacher of the Baptist Church, and it is often a surprise to those 
who have heard only his humorous sayings to hear him speak with earnestness and 
serious persuasiveness of the deeper things of life, for he is a man of deep exper¬ 
iences and of pure ideals. 

His most popular lectures have been those on “ The Rise and Fall of the Mus¬ 
tache,” “Home,” and “The Pilgrimage of the Funny Man.” He has published 
in book-form, “ The Rise and Fall of the Mustache and Other Hawkeyetems ” 
(Burlington, 1877), “ Hawkeyes ” (1880), “Life of William Penn” (New York, 
1882), a volume in the series of “ Comic Biographies ; ” and “ Innacli Garden and 
other Comic Sketches” (1886). 

He has been a frequent contributor to the Ladies ’ Home Journal and other cur¬ 
rent literature, and he has recently written a convulsive description of “ How I 
Learned to Ride the Bicycle,” which appeared in the Wheelmen. 

He has for some years made his home at Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, and he 
enjoys a large circle of friends. ^ 






















































3°4 


ROBERT J. BURDETTE. 


THE MOVEMENT CURE FOR RHEUMATISM * 


NE day, not a great while ago, Mr. Mid¬ 
dled!) read in his favorite paper a para¬ 
graph copied from the Prseger Land- 
wirthschaftliches Wochenblatt , a German paper, which 
is an accepted authority on such points, stating that 
the sting of a bee was a sure cure for rheumatism, 
and citing several remarkable instances in which peo- 
had been perfectly cured by this abrupt remedy. 
Mr. Middlerib did not stop to reflect that a paper 
with such a name as that would be very apt to say 
anything; he only thought of the rheumatic twinges 
that grappled his knees once in a while, and made 
life a burden to him. 

He read the article several times, and pondered 
over it. He understood that the stinging must be 
done scientifically and thoroughly. The bee, as he 
understood the article, was to be gripped by the ears 
and set down upon the rheumatic joint, and held 
there until it stung itself stingless. He had some 
misgivings about the matter. He knew it would 
hurt. He hardly thought it could hurt any worse 
than the rheumatism, and it had been so many years 
since he was stung by a bee that he had almost for¬ 
gotten what it felt like. He had, however, a general 
feeling that it would hurt some. But desperate 
diseases required desperate remedies, and Mr. Mid¬ 
dlerib was willing' to undergo any amount of suffer¬ 
ing if it would cure his rheumatism. 

He contracted with Master Middlerib for a limited 
supply of bees. There were bees and bees, hum¬ 
ming and buzzing about in the summer air, but Mr. 
Middlerib did not know how to get them. He felt, 
however, that he could depend upon the instincts and 
methods of boyhood. He knew that if there was 
any way in heaven or earth whereby the shyest bee 
that ever lifted a 200-pound man off the clover, 
could be induced to enter a wide-mouthed glass 
bottle, his son knew that way.. 

For the small sum of one dime Master Middlerib 
agreed to procure several, to-wit: six bees, age not 
specified; but as Mr. Middlerib was left in uncer¬ 
tainty as to the race, it was made obligatory upon the 
contractor to have three of them honey, and three 
humble, or in the generally accepted vernacular, 
bumble bees. Mr. Middlerib did not tell his son 
what he wanted those bees for, and the boy went off 

* Copyright, 


on his mission, with his head so full of astonishment 
that it fairly whirled. Evening brings all home, and 
the last rays of the declining sun fell upon Master 
Middlerib with a short, wide-mouthed bottle com¬ 
fortably populated with hot, ill-natured bees, and 
Mr. Middlerib and a dime. The dime and the bottle 
changed hands and the boy was happy. 

Mr. Middlerib put the bottle in his coat pocket 
and went into the house, eyeing everybody he met 
very suspiciously, as though he had made up his 
mind to sting to death the first person that said 
“ bee ” to him. He confided his guilty secret to none 
of his family. He hid his bees in his bedroom, and 
as he looked at them just before putting them away, 
he half wished the experiment was safely over. He 
wished the imprisoned bees didn’t look so hot and 
cross. With exquisite care he submerged the bottle 
in a basin of water, and let a few drops in on the 
heated inmates, to cool them off. 

At the tea-table he had a great fight. Miss Mid¬ 
dlerib, in the artless simplicity of her romantic nature 

said: “I smell bees. How the odor brings up-” 

But her father glared at her, and said, with super¬ 
fluous harshness and execrable grammar: 

“ Hush up ! You don’t smell nothing.” 

AVhereupon Mrs. Middlerib asked him if he had 
eaten anything that disagreed with him, and Miss 
Middlerib said : “ Why, pa ! ” and Master Middlerib 
smiled as he wondered. 

Bedtime came at last, and the night was warm 
and sultry. Under various false pretences, Mr. Mid¬ 
dlerib strolled about the house until everybody else 
was in bed, and then he sought his room. He turned 
the night-lamp down until its feeble rays shone 
dimly as a death-light. 

Mr. Middlerib disrobed slowly—very slowly. When 
at last he was ready to go lumbering into his peace¬ 
ful couch, he heaved a profound sigh, so full of ap¬ 
prehension and grief that Mrs. Middlerib, who was 
awakened by it, said if it gave him so much pain to 
come to bed, perhaps he had better sit up all night. 
Mr. Middlerib checked another sigh, but said nothing 
and crept into bed. After lying still a few moments 
he reached out and got his bottle of bees. 

It is not an easy thing to do, to pick one bee out 
of a bottle full, with his fingers, and not get into 
R. J. Burdette. 









ROBERT J. BURDETTE. 


3°5 


trouble. The first bee Mr. Middlerib got was a little 
brown honey-bee that wouldn't weigh half an ounce 
if you picked him up by the ears, but if you lifted 
him by the hind leg as Mr. Middlerib did, would 
weigh as much as the last end of a bay mule. Mr. 
Middlerib could not repress a groan. 

“What’s the matter with you?” sleepily asked 
his wife. 

It was very hard for Mr. Middlerib to say ; he 
only knew his temperature had risen to 86 all over, 
and to 197 on the end cf his thumb. He reversed 
the bee and pressed the Warlike terminus of it firmly 
against his rheumatic knee. 

It didn’t hurt so badly as he thought it would. 

It didn’t hurt at all! 

Then Mr. Middlerib remembered that when the 
honey-bee stabs a human foe it generally leaves its 
harpoon in the wound, and the invalid knew then the 
only thing the bee had to sting with was doing its 
work at the end of his thumb. 

He reached his arm out from under the sheet, and 
dropped this' disabled atom of rheumatism liniment 
on the carpet. Then, after a second of blank wonder, 
he began to feel around for the bottle, and wished he 
knew what he had done with it. 

In the meantime, strange things had been going 
on. When he caught hold of the first bee, Mr. 
Middlerib, for reasons, drew it out in such haste that 
for the time he forgot all about the bottle and its 
remedial contents, and left it lying uncorked in the 
bed. In the darkness there had been a quiet but 
general emigration from that bottle. The bees, their 
wings clogged with the water Mr. Middlerib had 
poured upon them to cool and tranquilize them, were 
crawling aimlessly about over the sheet. While Mr. 
Middlerib was feeling around for it, his ears were 
suddenly thrilled and his heart frozen by a wild, 
piercing scream from his wife. 

“ Murder ! ” she screamed, “ murder ! Oh, help 
me ! Help ! help ! ” 

Mr. Middlerib sat bold upright in bed. His hair 
stood on end. The night was very warm, but he 
turned to ice in a minute. 

20 p. h. 


“ Where, oh, where,” he sa : d, with pallid lips, as 
he felt all over the bed in frenzied haste—“ where in 
the world are those infernal bees?” 

And a large “bumble,” with a sting as pitiless as 
the finger of scorn, just then lighted between Mr. 
Middlerib’s shoulders, and went for his marrow, and 
said calmly : “ Here is one of them.” 

And Mrs. Middlerib felt ashamed of her feeble 
screams when Mr. Middlerib threw up both arms, 
and, with a howl that made the windows rattle, 
roared: 

“ Take him off! Oh, land of Scott, somebody take 
him off!” 

And when a little honey-bee began tickling the 
sole of Mrs. Middlerib’s foot, she shrieked that tie 
house was bewitched, and immediately went into 
spasms. 

The household was aroused by this time. Miss 
Middlerib, and Master Middlerib and the servants 
were pouring into the room, adding to the general 
confusion, by howling at random and asking irrelevant 
questions, while they gazed at the figure of a man, 
a little on in years, pawing fiercely at the unattain¬ 
able spot in the middle of his back, while he danced 
an unnatural, weird, wicked-looking jig by the dim 
religious light of the night lamp. 

And while he danced and howled, and while they 
gazed and shouted, a navy-blue wasp-, that Master 
Middlerib had put in the bottle for good measure and 
variety, and to keep the menagerie stirred up, had 
dried his legs and wings with a corner of the sheet, 
after a preliminary circle or two around the bed, to 
get up his motion and settle down to a working gait, 
fired himself across the room, and to his dying day 
Mr. Middlerib will always believe that one of the 
servants mistook him for a burglar, and shot him. 

No one, not even Mr. Middlerib himself, could 
doubt that he was, at least for the time, most thor¬ 
oughly cured of rheumatism. His own boy could 
not have carried himself more lightly or with greater 
agility. But the cure was not permanent, and Mr, 
Middlerib does not like to talk about it. 








fH 


LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. 

1 

AUTHOR OF “ LITTLE WOMEN.” 

HE famous author of “ Little Women,” “ Little Men,” and ee Old- 
Fasliioned Girls,” made her beginning, as have many who have done 
any good or acquired fame in the world, by depending on herself. In 
other words, she was the architect of her own fortune, and has left be¬ 
hind her works that will endure to gladden the hearts of millions of boys 
and girls. But she has done more. She has left behind her a record 
of a life within itself, a benediction and inspiration to every thoughtful girl who reads it. 

While Miss Alcott always considered New England her home, she was actually 
born in Germantown, Philadelphia, November 29, 1832. Her father, Amos Bron¬ 
son Alcott, after his marriage in New England, accepted a position as principal of a 
Germantown Academy, which he occupied from 1831 to 1834, and afterwards taught 
a children’s school at his own residence, but he was unsuccessful and he returned to 
Boston in 1835, when Louisa was two years old. 

From this time forward, Mr. Alcott was a close friend and associate of the poet 
and philosopher Emerson, sharing with him his transcendental doctrines, and join¬ 
ing in the Brook-Farm experiment of ideal communism at Boxbury, Mass. The 
Brook-Farm experiment brought Mr. Alcott to utter financial ruin, and after its 
failure he removed to Concord, where he continued to live until his death. It was 
at this time that Louisa, although a mere child, formed a noble and unselfish pur¬ 
pose to retrieve the family fortune. When only fifteen years of age, she turned her 
thoughts to teaching, her first school being in a barn and attended by the child¬ 
ren of Mr. Emerson and other neighbors. Almost at the same time she began to 
compose fairy stories, which were contributed to papers ; but these early productions 
brought her little if any compensation, and she continued to devote herself to teach¬ 
ing, receiving her own education privately from her father. “ When I was twenty- 
one years of age,” she wrote many years later to a friend, “ I took my little earnings 
($20) and a few clothes, and went out to seek my fortune, though I might have sat still 
and been supported by rich friends. All those hard years were teaching me what I 
afterwards put into books, and so I made my fortune out of my seeming misfortune.” 

Two years after this brave start Miss Alcott’s earliest book, “ Fairy Tales,” was 
published (1855). About the same time her work began to be accepted by the 
“ Atlantic Monthly ” and other magazines of reputation. During the winters of 
1862 and ’63 she volunteered her services and went to Washington and served as a 
nurse in the government hospitals, and her experiences here were embodied in a 

3°' J 




































LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. 


3°7 

seiies of graphic letters to her mother and sisters. These letters she revised and 
had printed in the “ Boston Commonwealth ” in the summer of 1863. They were 
afterwaids issued in a volume entitled “Hospital Sketches and Camp-Fire Stories.” 
1 his was her second book, which, together with her magazine articles, opened the 
way to a splendid career as an author. 

. naturally fond of young people, Miss Alcott turned her attention from this 

time forward to writing for them. Her distinctive books for the young are entitled 
“ Moods” (1864); “Morning Glories” (1867); “Little Women” (1868), which 
washer first decided success; “ An Old-Fashioned Girl” (1869); “Little Men” 
(1871); “Work” (1873); “Eight Cousins” (1875), and its sequel, “Bose in’ 
Bloom” (1877), which perhaps ranks first among her books; “Under the Lilacs” 
(18/8) ; Jack and Jill” (1880), and “Lulu’s Library” (1885). Besides these she 
has put forth, at different times, several volumes of short stories, among which are 
“ Cupid and Chow-Chow,” “ Silver Pitchers ” and “ Aunt Joe’s Scrap-bag.” 

From childhood Miss Alcott was under the tutelage of the Emersonian school, 
and was not less than her father an admirer of the “Seer of Concord.” “Those 
Concord days,” she writes, “were among the happiest of my life, for we had the 
charming playmates in the little Emersons, Channings, and Hawthornes, with their 
illustrious parents, to enjoy our pranks and join our excursions.” 

In speaking ot Emerson she also wrote to a young woman a few years before 
her death.: “Theodore Parker and Balph Waldo Emerson have done much to 
help me see that one can shape life best by trying to build up a strong and noble 
character, through good books, wise people’s society, and by taking an interest in 
all reforms that help the world, . . . believing always that a loving and just Father 
cares for us, sees our weakness, and is near to help if we call.” Continuing she 
asks: “Have you read Emerson? He is called a Pantheist, or believer in nature, 
instead of God. He was truly a Christian and saw God in nature, finding strength 
and comfort in the same sweet influence of the great Mother as well as the great 
Father of all. I, too, believe this, and when tired, sad or tempted, find my best 
comfort in the woods, the sky, the healing solitude that lets my poor, weary soul 
find the rest, the fresh hopes, the patience which only God can give us.” 

The chief aim of Miss Alcott seemed to have been to make others happy. Many 
are the letters treasured up by young authors who often, but never in vain, sought 
her advice and kind assistance. To one young woman who asked her opinion on 
certain new books, in 1884, she wrote: “About books; yes, I’ve read ‘Mr. Isaacs’ 
and ‘Dr. Claudius,’* and like them both. The other, “To Leeward,” is not so 
good; ‘Little Pilgrim’ was pretty, but why try to paint heaven ? Let it alone and 
prepare for it, whatever it is, sure that God knows what we need and deserve. I 
will send you Emerson’s ‘Essays.’ Bead those marked. I hope they will be as 
helpful to you as they have been to me and many others. They will bear study 
and I think are what you need to feed upon now.” The marked essays were those 
on “Compensation,” “Love,” “Friendship,” “Heroism,” and “Self-Beliance.” 

Miss Alcott’s kindness for young people grew with her advancing years. Being 
a maiden lady without daughters of her own, she was looked up to and delighted 
in being considered as a foster-mother to aspiring girls all over the land. How 

* These are the books that made F. Marion Crawford famous. 






LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. 


3 °S 

many tiriiv.o sue wrote similar sentences to this: “Write freely to me, dear girl, and 
if I can help you in any way be sure I will.” This was written to one she had 
never seen and only four years before her death, when she was far from well. 

Miss Alcott died in Boston, March 6, 1888, at the age of fifty-six years, and just 
two days after her aged father, who was eiglity-five years old, and who had 
depended on her many years, passed away. Though a great advocate of work for 
the health, she was, no doubt, a victim of overwork; for it is said she frequently 
devoted from twelve to fifteen hours a day to her literary labors, . . . besides looking 
after her business affairs and caring personally for her old father, for many years 
an invalid. In addition to this, she educated some of her poor relatives, and still 
further took the place of a mother to little Lulu, the daughter of her sister, May, 
who died when the child was an infant. 


HOW JO MADE FRIENDS* 

(FROM “ LITTLE WOMEN.”) 


HAT boy is suffering for society and fun,” 
she said to herself. “ His grandpa don’t 
know what’s good for him, and keeps him 
shut up all alone. He needs a lot of jolly boys to 
play with, or somebody young and lively. I’ve a 
great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so.” 

The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things, 
and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer per¬ 
formances. The plan of “ going over ” was not for¬ 
gotten ; and, when the snowy afternoon came, Jo 
resolved to try what could be done. She saw Mr. 
Laurence drive off, and then sailed out to dig her way 
down to the hedge, where she paused and took a sur¬ 
vey. All quiet; curtains down to the lower win¬ 
dows ; servants out of sight, and nothing human 
visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand, 
at the upper window. 

“ There he is,” thought Jo ; “ poor boy, all alone, 
and sick, this dismal day ! It’s a shame! I’ll toss 
up a snowball, and make him look out, and then say 
a kind word to him.” 

Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head 
turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless 
look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened, and the 
mouth began to smile. Jo nodded, and laughed, 
and flourished her broom, as she called out,— 

“ How do you do ? Are you sick ?” 

Laurie opened the window and croaked out as 
hoarsely as a raven,— 

♦Copyright, 


“ Better, thank you. I’ve had a horrid cold, and 
have been shut up a week.” 

“ I’m sorry. What do you amuse yourself with ?” 

“ Nothing; it’s as dull as tombs up here.” 

“ Don’t you read ?” 

“ Not much ; they won’t let me.” 

“ Can’t somebody read to you?” 

“ Grandpa does, sometimes ; but my books don’t in¬ 
terest him, and I hate to ask Brooke all the time.” 

“ Have some one come and see you, then.” 

“ There isn’t any one I’d like to see. Boys make 
such a row, and my head is weak.” 

“ Isn’t there some nice girl who’d read and amuse 
you ? Girls are quiet, and like to play nurse.” 

“ Don’t know any.” 

“ You know me,” began Jo, then laughed and 
stopped. 

“ So I do ! Will you come, please ?” cried Laurie. 

“ I’m not quiet and nice; but I’ll come, if mother 
will let me. 111 go ask her. Shut that window, 
like a good boy, and wait till I come. 

“ Oh ! that does me lots of good ; tell on, please,” 
he said, taking his face out of the sofa-cushion, red 
and shining with merriment. 

Much elevated with her success, Jo did “ tell on,” 
all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears 
for father, and the most interesting events of the 
little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got 
to talking about books ; and to Jo’s delight she found 
Roberts Bros. 








LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. 


that Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had 
read even more than herself. 

“ If you like them so much, come down and see ours. 
Grandpa is out, so you needn’t be afraid,” said Laurie, 
getting up. 

“ I’m not afraid of anything,” returned Jo, with a 
toss of the head. 

“ I don t believe you are!” exclaimed the boy, 
looking at her with much admiration, though he 
privately thought she would have good reason to be a 
trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in 
some of his moods. 

The atmosphere of the whole house being summer- 
like, Laurie led the way from room to room, letting 
Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancv ; and 
so at last they came to the library, where she clapped 
her hands, and pranced, as she always did when 
specially delighted. It was lined with books, and 
there were pictures and statues, and distracting little 
cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and Sleep-Hol¬ 
low chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes; and, best 
of all, a great, open fireplace, with quaint tiles all 
round it. 

“ What richness!” sighed Jo, sinking into the 
depths of a velvet chair, and gazing about her with 
an air of intense satisfaction. “ Theodore Laurence, 
you ought to be the happiest boy in the world,” she 
added impressively. 

“ A fellow can’t live on books,” said Laurie, shak¬ 
ing his head, as he perched on a table opposite. 

Before he could say any more, a bell rang, and Jo 


309 

flew up, exclaiming with alarm, “ Mercy me ! it’s your 
grandpa!” 

“ Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of any¬ 
thing, you know,” returned the boy, looking wicked. 

“ I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I 
don’t know why I should be. Marmee said I might 
come, and I don’t think you are any the worse for 
it,” said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her 
eyes on the door. 

“ I’m a great deal better for it, and ever so much 
obliged. I’m afraid you are very tired talking to me ; 
it was so pleasant, I couldn’t bear to stop,” said Laurie 
gratefully. 

“ The doctor to see you, sir,” and the maid beckoned 
as she spoke. 

“ Would you mind if I left you for a minute? 1/ 
suppose I must see him,” said Laurie. 

“ Don’t mind me. I’m as happy as a cricket 
here,” answered Jo. 

Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in 
her own way. She was standing before a fine por¬ 
trait of the old gentleman, when the door opened 
again, and, without turning, she said decidedly, “ I’m 
sure now that I shouldn’t be afraid of him, for he’s 
got kind eyes, though his mouth is grim, and he looks 
as if he had a tremendous will of his own. He isn’t 
as handsome as my grandfather, but I like him.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” said a gruff voice behind 
her-; and there, to her great dismay, stood old Mr. 
Laurence. 













•9 


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WILLIAM TAYLOR ADAMS. 


THE WELL-BELOVED WRITER FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 



ROBABLY no literary man in America lias ministered to the pleasure 
of a greater number of our young peojile than William Taylor 
Adams, who is a native of Massachusetts and was born in Medway 
in 1822. He has devoted his life to young people; for more than 
twenty years as a teacher in the public schools of Boston, for many 
years a member of the school board of Dorchester, and since 1850 
as a writer of stories. In his earlier life, he was the editor of a periodical known as 
“ The Student and Schoolmate.” In 1881 he began the publication of “ Our Little 
Ones,” and later “ Oliver Optic’s Magazine for Boys and Girls.” His first book 
was published in 1853; it was entitled “ Hatchie, the Guardian Slave,” and had a 
large sale. It was followed by a collection of stories called “ In Doors and Out,” 
and in 1862 was completed “The Riverdale Series” of six volumes of stories for 
boys. Some of his other books are “The Boat Club;” “Woodville;” “Young 
America Abroad ;” “ Starry Flag ;” “ Onward and Upward ; ” “ Yacht Club; ” and 
“ Great Western.” In all he has written at least a thousand stories for newspapers, 
and published about a hundred volumes. Among these are two novels for older 
readers : “ The Way of the World ” and “ Living Too Fast.” 

Mr. Adams’ style is both pleasing and simple. His stories are frequently based 
upon scenes of history and their influence is al ways for good. 


-♦o*- 


THE SLOOP THAT WENT TO THE BOTTOM.* 

(FROM “ SNUG HARBOR,” 1883 .) 



TARBOARD your helm! hard a-starboard!” 
shouted Dory Dornwood, as he put the 
helm of the “ Goldwing ” to port in order 


to avoid a collision with a steam launch which lay dead 
ahead of the schooner. 

“ Keep off! you will sink me ! ” cried a young man 
in a sloop-boat, which lay exactly in the course of the 
steam launch. “ That’s just what I mean to do, if 
you don’t come about,” yelled a man at the wheel of 


the steamer. “ Why didn’t you stop when I called 
to you?” 

“ Keep off, or you will be into me ! ” screamed the 
skipper of the sloop, whose tones and manner indicated 
that he was very much terrified at the situation. 

And he had reason enough to be alarmed. It was 
plain, from his management of his boat, that he was 
but an indifferent boatman ; and probably he did not 
know what to do in the emergency. Dory had noticed 

* Copyright, Lee & Shepard, 

3 IQ 






















































WILLIAM TAYLOR ADAMS. 


i 


the sloop coming up the lake with the steam launch 
astern of her. The latter had run ahead of the sloop, 
and had come about, it now appeared, for the purpose 
of intercepting her. 

When the skipper of the sloop realized the inten¬ 
tion of the helmsman of the steamer, he put his helm 
to port; but he was too late. The sharp bow of the 
launch struck the frail craft amidships, and cut 
through her as though she had been made of card¬ 
board. 

The sloop filled instantly, and, a moment later, the 
young man in her was struggling on the surface of the 
water. The boat was heavily ballasted, and she went 
down like a lump of lead. It was soon clear to Dory 
that the skipper could not swim, for he screamed as 
though the end of all things had come. 

Very likely it would have been the end of all things 
to him, if Dory had not come about with the “ Gold, 
wing,” and stood over the place where the young man 
was vainly beating the water with his feet and hands. 
With no great difficulty the skipper of the “ Gold¬ 
wing,” who was an aquatic bird of the first water ? 
pulled in the victim of the catastrophe, in spite of the 
i apparent efforts of the sufferer to prevent him from 
doing so. 

“ You had a narrow squeak that time,” said Dory 
Dornwood, as soon as he thought the victim of the 
disaster was in condition to do a little talking. “ It 
is lucky you didn’t get tangled up in the rigging of 


your boat. She went to the bottom like a pound of 
carpet-tacks ; and she would have carried you down in 
a hurry if you hadn’t let go in short metre.” 

“ I think I am remarkably fortunate in being 
among the living at this moment,” replied the stranger, 
looking out over the stern of the “ Goldwing.” “ That 
was the most atrocious thing a fellow ever did.” 

“ What was?” inquired Dory, who was not quite 
sure what the victim meant by the remark, or whether 
he alluded to him or to the man in the steam launch. 

“ Why, running into me like that,” protested the 
passenger, with no little indignation in his tones. 

“ I suppose you came up from Burlington?” said 
Dory, suggestively, as though he considered an ex¬ 
planation on the part of the stranger to be in order at 
the present time. 

“ I have just come from Burlington,” answered the 
victim, who appeared to be disposed to say nothing 
more. “ Do you suppose I can get that boat again?” 

“ I should say that the chance of getting her again 
was not first-rate. She went down where the water 
is about two hundred and fifty feet deep ; and it won’t 
be an easy thing to get hold of her,” replied Dory. 
“ If you had let him run into you between Diamond 
Island and Porter’s Bay, where the water is not more 
than fifty or sixty feet deep, you could have raised her 
without much difficulty. I don’t believe you will ever 
see her again.” 


















SAKAH JANE LIPPINCOTT. 

FAVORITE WRITER FOR LITTLE CHILDREN. 





NE of the earliest papers devoted esj)ecially to young children was 
“The Little Pilgrim/’ edited for a number of years under the name 
of “Grace Greenwood,” by Mrs. Lippincott. It had a very wide 
popularity, and its little stories, poems, and page of puzzles brought 
pleasure into very many home circles. Mrs. Lippincott is the 
daughter of Doctor Thaddeus Clarke. She was born in Pompey, 
New York, in September, 1823, and lived during most of her childhood in 
Koch ester. In 1842 she removed with her father to New Brighton, Pennsylvania, 
and in 1853 she was married to Leander K. Lippincott, of Philadelphia. She had 
early begun to write verses, and, in 1844, contributed some prose articles to “The 
New York Mirror,” adopting the name “Grace Greenwood,” which she has since 
made famous. Besides her work upon “The Little Pilgrim,” she has contributed 
for many years to “The Hearth and Home,” “The Atlantic Monthly,” “Harper’s 
Magazine,” “The New York Independent,” “Times,” and “Tribune,” to several 
California journals, and to at least two English periodicals. She was one of the 
first women to become a newspaper correspondent, and her letters from Washington 
inaugurated a new feature in journalism. She has published a number of books: 
“Greenwood Leaves;” “History of My Pets;” “Poems;” “Kecollections of My 
Childhood;” “Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe;” “Merrie England;” 
“Stories from Many Lands;” “Victoria, Queen of England,” and others. 

Mrs. Lippincott has lived abroad a great deal, and has been made welcome in 
the best literary circles in England and on the continent. During the war she 
devoted herself to the cause of the soldiers, read and lectured to them in camps 
and hospitals, and won the appreciation of President Lincoln, who used to speak 
of her as “Grace Greenwood, the Patriot.” Although devoted to her home in 
Washington, she has spent much time in New York City, and has lived a life 
whose activity and service to the public are almost unequalled among literary 


women. 





THE BABY IN THE BATH-TUB * 

(FROM “ RECORDS OF FIVE YEARS,” 1867 .) 


NNIE! Sophie! come up quick, and see 
baby in her bath-tub ! ” cries a charming 
little maiden, running down the wide stair- 

*' Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co 

3 X 3 


way of an old country house, and half-way up the 
long hall, all in a fluttering cloud of pink lawn, her 
soft dimpled cheeks tinged with the same lovely morn- 




































SARAH JANE LIPPINCOTT. 


313 




mg hue. In an instant there is a stir and a gush of 
light laughter in the drawing-room, and presently, 
with a movement a little more majestic and elder-sis- 
terly, Annie and Sophie float noiselessly through the 
hall and up the soft-carpeted ascent, as though borne 
on their respective clouds of blue and white drapery, 
and take their way to the nursery, where a novel en¬ 
tertainment awaits them. It is the first morning: of 
the eldest married sister’s first visit home, with her 
first baby; and the first baby, having slept late after 
its journey, is about to take its first bath in the old 


house. 


“Well, I declare, if here isn’t mother, forgetting 
her dairy, and Cousin Nellie, too, who must have left 
poor Ned all to himself in the garden, lonely and dis¬ 
consolate, and I am torn from my books, and Sophie 
from her flowers, and all for the sake of seeing a nine- 
month-old baby kicking about in a bath-tub ! What 
simpletons we are ! ” 

Thus Miss Annie, the proude layde of the family ; 
handsome, haughty, with perilous proclivities toward 
grand socialistic theories, transcendentalism, and gen¬ 
eralstrong-mindedness ; pledged by many a saucy vow 
to a life of single dignity and freedom, given to 
studies artistic, aesthetic, philosophic and ethical; a 
student of Plato, an absorber of Emerson, an exalter 
of her sex, a contemner of its natural enemies. 

“Simpletons, are we?” cries pretty Elinor Lee, 
aunt of the baby on the other side, and “ Cousin 
Nellie” by love’s courtesy, now kneeling close by the 
bath-tub, and receiving on her sunny braids a liberal 
baptism from the pure, plashing hands of babyhood, 
—“ simpletons, indeed ! Did I not once see thee, 0 
Pallas-Athene, standing rapt before a copy of the 
‘Crouching Venus?’ and this is a sight a thousand 
times more beautiful; for here we have color, action, 
radiant life, and such grace as the divinest sculptors 
of Greece were never able to entrance in marble. Just 
look at these white, dimpled shoulders, every dimple 
holding a tiny, sparkling drop,—these rosy, plashing 
feet and hands,—this laughing, roguish face,—these 
eyes, bright and blue and deep as lakes of fairy-land, 
—these ears, like dainty sea-shells,—these locks of 
gold, dripping diamonds,—and tell me what cherub 
of Titian, what Cupid of Greuze, was ever half so 
lovely. I say, too, that Raphael himself would have 
jumped at the chance of painting Louise, as she sits 


there, towel in hand, in all the serene pride and chas¬ 
tened dignity of young maternity,—of painting her as 
Madonna .” 

“ Why, Cousin Nellie is getting poetical for once, 
over a baby in a bath-tub ! ” 

“Well, Sophie, isn’t it a subject to inspire real 
poets, to call out and yet humble the genius of * 
painters and sculptors ? Isn’t it an object for the' 
reverence of ‘ a glorious human creature,’—such a 
pure and perfect form of physical life, such a starry 
little soul, fresh from the hands of God ? If your 
Plato teaches otherwise, Cousin Annie, I’m glad I’ve 
no acquaintance with that distinguished heathen gen¬ 
tleman ; if your Carlyle, with his ‘ soul above buttons’ 
and babies, would growl, and your Emerson smile icily 
at the sight, away with them ! ” 

“ Why, Nellie, you goose, Carlyle is ‘ a man and a 
brother,’ in spite of his ‘ Latter-day Pamphlets,’ and 
no ogre. I believe he is very well disposed toward 
babies in general; while Emerson is as tender as he is 
great. Have you forgotten his ‘ Threnody,’ in which 
the sob of a mortal’s sorrow rises and swells into an 
immortal’s pean ? I see that baby is very lovely ; I 
think that Louise may well be proud of her. It’s a pity 
that she must grow up into conventionalities and all 
that,—perhaps become some man’s plaything, or 
slave.” 

“ 0 don't, ^ister !— 1 sufficient for the day is the 
worriment thereof.’ But I think you and Nellie are 
mistaken about the pride. I am conscious of no such 
feeling in regard to my little Florence, but only of 
joy, gratitude, infinite tenderness, and solicitude.” 

Thus the young mother,—for the first time speak¬ 
ing, but not turning her eyes from the bath-tub. 

“ Ah, coz, it won’t go ! Young mothers are the 
proudest of living creatures. The sweetest and saint- 
liest among you have a sort of subdued exultation, a 
meek assumption, an adorable insolence, toward the 
whole unmarried and childless world. I have never 
seen anything like it elsewhere.” 

“/ have, in a bantam Biddy, parading her first 
brood in the hen-yard, or a youthful duck, leading her 
first little downy flock to the water.” 

“Ha, blasphemer! are you there?” cries Miss 
Nellie, with a bright smile, and a brighter blush. 
Blasphemer’s other name is a tolerably good one,— 
Edward Norton,—though he is oftenest called “ Our 







3 X 4 


SARAH JANE LIPPINCOTT. 


Ned.” He is the sole male representative of a wealthy 
old New England family,—the pride and darling of 
four pretty sisters, “ the only son of his mother, and 
she a widow,” who adores him,—“ a likely youth, just 
twenty-one,” handsome, brilliant, and standing six feet 
high in his stockings. Yet, in spite of all these un¬ 
favorable circumstances, he is a very good sort of a 
fellow. He is just home from the model college of 
the Commonwealth, where he learned to smoke, and, 
I blush to say, has a cigar in hand at this moment, 
just as he has been summoned from the garden by 
his pet sister, Kate, half-wild with delight and excite¬ 
ment. With him comes a brother, according to the 
law, and after the spirit,—a young, slender, fair-haired 
man, but with an indescribable something of paternal 
importance about him. He is the other proprietor 
of baby, and steps forward with a laugh and a “ Heh, 
my little water-nymph, my Iris ! ” and by the bath-tub 
kneeling, catches a moist kiss from smiling baby lips, 
and a sudden wilting shower on shirt-front and collar, 
from moister baby hands. 

Young collegian pauses on the threshold, essaying 
to look lofty and sarcastic, for a moment. Then his 
eye rests on Nellie Lee's blushing face, on the red, 
smiling lips, the braids of gold, sprinkled with shining 
drops,—meets those sweet, shy eyes, and a sudden, 
mysterious feeling, soft and vague and tender, floods 
his gay young heart. He looks at baby again. “ ’Tis 
a pretty sight, upon my word ! Let me throw away 
my cigar before I come nearer; it is incense too pro¬ 


fane for such pure rites. Now give me a peep at 
Dian-the less! How the little witch revels in the 
water! A small Undine. Jolly, isn’t it, baby ? Why, 
Louise, I did not know that Floy was so lovely, such 
a perfect little creature. How fair she is ? Why, 
her flesh, where it is not rosy, is of the pure, trans¬ 
lucent whiteness of a water-lily.” 

No response to this tribute, for baby has been in 
the water more than long enough, and must be taken 
out, willy, nilly. Decidedly nilly it proves; baby 
proceeds to demonstrate that she is not altogether 
cherubic, by kicking and screaming lustily, and strik¬ 
ing out frantically with her little, dripping hands. 
But Madonna wraps her in soft linen, rolls her and 
pats her, till she grows good and merry again, and 
laughs through her pretty tears. 

But the brief storm has been enough to clear the 
nursery of all save grandmamma and Auntie Kate, 
who draw nearer to witness the process of drying and 
dressing. Tenderly the mother rubs the dainty, soft 
skin, till every dimple gives up its last hidden drop¬ 
let; then, with many a kiss, and smile, and coo, she 
robes the little form in fairy-like garments of cambric, 
lace, flannel, soft as a moth’s wing, and delicate em¬ 
broidery. The small, restless feet are caught, and 
encased in comical little hose, and shod with Titania’s 
own slippers. Then the light golden locks are brushed 
and twined into tendril-like curls, and lo ! the beauti¬ 
ful labor of love is finished. Baby is bathed and 
dressed for the day. 








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HORATIO ALGER. 

S a writer of books at once entertaining and at the same time of a 

o 

healthy and earnest character a parent cannot recommend to his boys 
a more wholesome author than Horatio Alger, Jr. Mr. Alger 
always writes with a careful regard to truth and to the right princi¬ 
ples. His heroes captivate the imagination, out they do not inflame 
it, and they are generally worthy examples for the emulation of boys. 
At the same time he is in no sense a preacher. His books have the true juvenile 
flavor and charm, and, like the sugar pills of the homoeopathist, carry the good medi¬ 
cine of morality, bravery, industry, enterprise, honor—everything that goes to make 
up the true manly and noble character, so subtly woven into the thread of his inter¬ 
esting narrative that the writer without detecting its presence receives the whole¬ 
some benefit. 

Mr. Alger became famous in the publication of that undying book, “ Ragged 
Dick ; or, Street Life in New York.” It was his first book for young people, and its 
success was so great that he immediately devoted himself to writing for young 
people, which he has since continued. It was a new field for a writer when Mr. 
Alger began, and his treatment of it at once caught the fancy of the boys. 
“ Ragged Dick” first appeared in 1868, and since then it has been selling steadily 
until now it is estimated that over two hundred thousand copies of the series have 
passed into circulation. Mr. Alger possesses in an eminent degree that sympathy 
with boys which a writer must have to meet with success. He is able to enter into 
their plans, hopes, and aspirations. He knows how to look upon life as they do. 
He writes straight at them as one from their ranks and not down upon them as a 
towering fatherly adviser. A boy's heart naturally opens to a writer who under¬ 
stands him and makes a companion of him. This, we believe, accounts for the 
enormous sale of the books of this writer. We are told that about three-quarters of a 
million copies of his books have been sold and that all the large circulating libraries 
in the country have several complete sets of them, of which but few volumes are 
found on the shelves at one time. 

Horatio Alger, Jr., was born in Revere, Massachusetts, January 13, 1834. 
He graduated at Harvard University in 1852, after which he spent several years in 
teaching and newspaper work. In 1864 he was ordained as a Unitarian minister 
and served a Massachusetts church for two years. It was in 1866 that he took up 
his residence in New York and became deeply interested in the street boys, and 
exerted what influence he could to the bettering of their condition. His experience 
in this work furnished him with the information out of which giew many of his 

later writings. 



3 r 5 

































3 l6 


HORATIO ALGER. 


To enumerate tlie various volumes published by this author would be tedious. 
They have generally been issued in series. Several volumes complete one subject 
or theme. His first published book was “Bertha’s Christmas Vision” (1855). 
Succeeding this came “Nothing to Do,” a tilt at our best society, in verse (1857); 
“Frank’s Campaign; or, What a Boy Can Do” (1864); “Helen Ford,” a novel, 
and also a volume of poems (1866). The “Bagged Dick” series began in 1868. 
and comprises six volumes. Succeeding this came “Tattered Tom,” first and 
second series, comprising eight volumes. The entire fourteen volumes above 
referred to are devoted to New York street life of boys. “ Bagged Dick ” has served 
as a model for many a poor boy struggling upward, while the influence of Phil the 
fiddler in the “ Tattered Tom ” series is credited with having had much to do in 
the abolishment of the padrone system. The “ Campaign Series ” comprised three 
volumes; the “Luck and Pluck Series” eight; the “Brave and Bold” four; the 
“ Pacific Series ” four; the “ Atlantic Series ” four; “ Way to Success” four; the 
“ New World ” three ; the “ Victory Series ” three. All of these were published 
prior to 1896. Since the beginning of 1896 have appeared “ Frank Hunter’s Peril,” 
“ The Young Salesman” and other later works, all of which have met with the 
usual cordial reception accorded by the boys and girls to the books of this favorite 
author. It is perhaps but just to say, now that Oliver Optic is gone, that Mr. 
Alger has attained distinction as the most popular writer of books for boys in 
America, and perhaps no other writer for the young has ever stimulated and 
encouraged earnest boys in their efforts to rise in the world or so strengthened their 
will to persevere in well-doing, and at the same time written stories so real that 
every one, young and old, delights to read them. He not only writes interesting 
and even thrilling stories, but what is of very great importance, they are always 
clean and healthy. 


HOW DICK BEGAN THE DAY* 


(FROM “ RAGGED DICK 


> 



^AKE up, there, youngster,” said a rough 
voice. 

Ragged Dick opened his eyes slowly and 
stared stupidly in the face of the speaker, but did not 
offer to get up. 

“ Wake up, you young vagabond ! ” said the man a 
little impatiently ; “ I suppose you’d lay there all day 
if I hadn’t called you.” 

“ What time is it ?” asked Dick. 

Seven o’clock.” 

“ Seven o’clock ! I oughter’ve been up an hour 
ago. I know what ’twas made me so precious sleepy. 
I went to the Old Bowery last night and didn’t turn 
in till past twelve.” 

“You went to the Old Bowery ? Where’d you get 
your money?” asked the man, who was a porter in 
the employ of a firm doing business on Spruce Street. 


OR, STREET LIFE IN NEW YORK.”) 

“ Made it on shines, in course. My guardian don’t 
allow me no money for theatres, so I have to earn it.” 

“ Some boys get it easier than that,” said the 
porter, significantly. 

“You don’t catch me stealing, if that’s what you 
mean,” said Dick. 

“ Don’t you ever steal, then ?” 

“ No, and I wouldn’t. Lots of boys does it, but I 
wouldn’t.” 

“ Well, I’m glad to hear you say that. I believe 
there’s some good in you, Dick, after all.” 

“ Oh, I’m a rough customer,” said Dick. “ But I 
wouldn’t steal. It’s mean.” 

“ I’m glad you think so, Dick,” and the rough voice 
sounded gentler than at first. “ Have you got any 
money to buy your breakfast ? ” 

“ No; but I’ll soon have some.” 


* Copyright, Porter & Coates. 











HORATIO ALGER. 


While this conversation had been going on Dick 
had got up. His bed-chamber had been a wooden 
box, half full of straw, on which the young boot- 
black had reposed his weary limbs and slept as soundly 
as if it had been a bed of down. He dumped down 
into the straw without taking the trouble of undress- 
ing. Getting up, too, was an equally short process. 
He jumped out of the box, shook himself, picked out 
one or two straws that had found their way into rents 
in his clothes, and, drawing a well-worn cap over his 
uncombed locks, he was all ready for the business of 
the day. 

Dick’s appearance, as he stood beside the box, was 
rather peculiar. His pants were torn in several 
places, and had apparently belonged in the first in¬ 
stance to a boy two sizes larger than himself. He 
wore a vest, all the buttons of which were gone ex¬ 
cept two, out of which peeped a shirt which looked as 
if it had been worn a month. To complete his costume 
he wore a coat too long for him, dating back, if one 
might judge from its general appearance, to a remote 
antiquity. 

Washing the hands and face is usually considered 
proper in commencing the day ; but Dick was above 
such refinement. He had no particular dislike to 
dirt, and did not think it necessary to remove several 
dark streaks on his face and hands. But in spite of 
his dirt and rags there was something about Dick that 
was attractive. It was easy to see that if he had 
been clean and well-dressed he would have been de¬ 
cidedly good-looking. Some of his companions were 
sly, and their faces inspired distrust; but Dick had a 
straightforward manner that made him a favorite. 

Dick’s business hours had commenced. He had no 
office to open. His little blacking-box was ready for 
use, and he looked sharply in the faces of all who 
; passed, addressing each with, “ Shine your boots, sir ? ” 
“ How much ? ” asked a gentleman on his way to 
his office. 

“ Ten cents,” said Dick, dropping his box, and 
sinking upon his knees on the sidewalk, flourishing his 
brush with the air of one skilled in his profession. 

“ Ten cents ! Isn’t that a little steep ? ” 


317 

“ Well, you know ’taint all clear profit,” said Dick, 
who had already set to work. “ There’s the blacking 
costs something, and I have to get a new brush pretty 
often.” 

“ And you have a large rent, too,” said the gentle¬ 
man, quizzically, with a glance at a large hole in 
Dick’s coat. 

“ Yes, sir,” said Dick, always ready for a joke; “ I 
have to pay such a big rent for my manshun up on 
Fifth Avenue that I can’t afford to take less than ten 
cents a shine. I’ll give you a bully shine, sir.” 

u Be quick about it then, for I am in a hurry. So 
your house is on Fifth Avenue, is it ? ” 

“ It isn’t anywhere else,” said Dick, and Dick spoke 
the truth there. 

“ What tailor do you patronize ?” asked the gentle¬ 
man, surveying Dick’s attire. 

“ Would you like to go to the same one ? ” asked 
Dick, shrewdly. 

u W ell, no; it strikes me that he didn’t give y r ou a 
very good fit.” 

“ This coat once belonged to General Washington,” 
said Dick, comically. “ He wore it all through the 
Revolution, and it got tore some, ’cause he fit so 
hard. When he died he told his widder to give it to 
some smart young fellow that hadn’t got none of his 
own: so she gave it to me. But if you’d like it, sir, 
to remember General Washington by, I’ll let you have 
it reasonable.” 

“ Thank you, but I wouldn’t like to deprive you of 
it. And did your pants come from General Wash¬ 
ington, too ? ” 

“ No, they was a gift from Lewis Napoleon. Lewis 
had outgrown ’em and sent ’em to me; he's bigger 
than me, and that’s why they don’t fit. 

“ It seems you have distinguished friends. Now, 
my lad, I suppose you would like your money.” 

“ I shouldn’t have any objection,” said Dick. 

vtf vp vp ^ 

'T* 'T* *T* -T* T 

And now, having fairly introduced Ragged Dick to 
my young readers, I must refer them to the next 
chapter for his further adventures. 











EDWARD S. ELLIS. 

WRITER OF POPULAR BOOKS FOR BOYS. 

« 

DWARD S. ELLIS is one of tlie most successful of the large group of 
men and women who have made it their principal business to provide 
delightful books for our young people. 

Mr. Ellis is a native of northern Ohio, born in 1840, but has 
lived most of his life in New Jersey. At the age of seventeen, he 
began his successful career as a teacher and was attached for some 
years to the State Normal School of New Jersey, and was Trustee and Superintend¬ 
ent of the schools in the city of Trenton. He received the degree of A. M. from 
Princeton University on account of the high character of his historical text-books ; 
but he is most widely known as a writer of books for boys. Of these, he has 
written about thirty and continues to issue two new ones each year, all of which are 
republished in London. His contributions to children’s papers are so highly 
esteemed that the “ Little Folks’ Magazine,” of London, pays him double the rates 
given to any other contributor. Mr. Ellis’s School Histories have been widely used 
as text-books and he has also written two books on Arithmetic. He is now prepar¬ 
ing “ The Standard History of the United States.” 

Besides those already mentioned, the titles of which would make too long a list 
to be inserted here, he has written a great many miscellaneous books. 

Mr. Ellis abounds in good nature and is a delightful companion, and finds in 
his home at Englewood, New Jersey, all that is necessary to the enjoyment of life. 



THE SIGNAL FIRE * 


(FROM “ STORM MOUNTAIN.”) 


ALBOT FROST paused on the crest of 
Storm Mountain and looked across the 
lonely Oakland Valley spread out before 

him. 

He had traveled a clean hundred miles through the 
forest, swimming rapid streams, dodging Indians and 
Tories, and ever on the alert for his enemies, who 
were equally vigilant in their search for him. 


He eluded them all, however, for Frost, grim and 
grizzled, was a veteran backwoodsman who had been 
a border scout for a score of years or more, and he 
knew all the tricks of the cunning Iroquois, whose 
ambition was to destroy every white person that could 
be reached with rifle, knife, or tomahawk. 

Frost had been engaged on many duties for the 
leading American officers, but he was sure that to-day 



* Copyright, Porter & Coates. 

3*3 






























EDWARD S. ELLIS. 


3 r 9 


was the most important of all; for be it known that 
he carried, hidden in the heel of his shoe, a message 
in cipher from General George Washington himself. 

Frost had been promised one hundred dollars in 
gold by the immortal leader of the American armies, 
it he would place the piece of cipher writing in the 
hands of Colonel Nick Hawley, before the evening of 
the tenth day of August, 1777. 

To-day was the tenth, the afternoon was only half 
gone, and Fort Defiance, with its small garrison under 
the command of Hawley, was only a mile distant in 
Oakland V alley. The vale spread away for many 
leagues to the right and left, and was a couple of miles 
wide at the point where the small border settlement 
was planted, with its stockade fort and its dozen 
families clustered near. 

“ Thar’s a good three hours of sunlight left,” mut¬ 
tered the veteran, squinting one eye toward the sultry 
August sky, “ and I orter tramp to the fort and back 
agin in half that time. I’ll be thar purty quick, if 
none of the varmints trip me up, but afore leavin’ this 
crest, I’d like to cotcli the signal fire of young Roslyn 
from over yender.” 

General Washington considered the message to 
Colonel Hawley so important that he had sent it in 
duplicate; that is to say, two messengers concealed 
the cipher about their persons and set out by widely 
different routes to Fort Defiance, in Oakland Valley. 

Since the distance was about the same, and it was 
not expected that there would be much variation in 
speed, it was believed that, barring accidents, the two 
would arrive in sight of their destination within a 
short time of each other. 

The other messenger was Elmer Roslyn, a youth 
of seventeen, a native of Oakland, absent with his 
father in the Continental Army, those two being the 
only members of their family who escaped an Indian 
massacre that had burst upon the lovely settlement 
some months before. 

It was agreed that whoever first reached the moun¬ 
tain crest should signal to the other by means of a 
small fire—large enough merely to send up a slight 
vapor that would show against the blue sky beyond. 

The keen eyes of Talbot Frost roved along the 
rugged mountain-ridge a couple of miles distant, in 
search of the tell-tale signal. They followed the 
craggy crest a long distance to the north and south of 


the point where Roslyn had promised to appear, but 
the clear summer air was unsusiained by the least 
semblance of smoke or vapor. The day itself was of 
unusual brilliancy, not the least speck of a cloud be¬ 
ing visible in the tinted sky. 

I hat Elmer Roslyn is a powerful pert young chap, 
said the border scout to himself. “ I don’t think I 
ever seed his ekal, and he can fight in battles jes’ like 
his father, Captain Mart, that I’ve heerd Gineral 
Washington say was one of the best officers he’s got; 
but thar s no sense in his puttin’ himself agin an old 
campaignor like me. I don’t s’pose lie’s within 
twenty mile of Oakland yit, and he won’t have a 
chance to kindle that ere signal fire afore to-morrer. 
So I’ll start mine, and in case he should accidentally 
reach the mountain-top over yender afore sundown, 
why he’ll see what a foolish younker he was to butt 
agin me.” 

Talbot Frost knew that despite the perils through 
which he had forced his way to this spot, the greatest 
danger, in all probability, lay in the brief space separ¬ 
ating him from Fort Defiance in the middle of the 
valley. 

It was necessary, therefore, to use great care lest 
the signal fire should attract the attention of un¬ 
friendly eyes. 

“ I’ll start a small one,” he said, beginning to 
gather some dry twigs, “just enough for Elmer to 
obsarve by sarcliin’—by the great Gineral Wash¬ 
ington ! ” 

To explain this exclamation of the old scout, I must 
tell you that before applying the flint and tinder to 
the crumpled leaves, Talbot Frost glanced across the 
opposite mountain-crest, two miles away. 

As he did so he detected a fine, wavy column of 
smoke climbing from the rocks and trees. It was so 
faint that it was not likely to attract notice, unless a 
suspicious eye happened to look toward that part of 
the sky. 

“ By gracious ! It’s him ! ” he exclaimed, closing 
his mouth and resuming command of himself. “ That 
ere young Roslyn is pearter than I thought; if he 
keeps on at this rate by the time he reaches my years 
he’ll be the ekal of me— almost. Wall, I’ll have to 
answer him; when we meet I’ll explanify that 
I give him up, and didn’t think it was wuth while to 
start a blaze.” 










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* 


MARTHA FINLEY. 


THE GIRLS FRIEND. 



ARTHA FINLEY, author of the “ Elsie Books,” etc., amounting in all 
to about one hundred volumes, was born in.Chillicothe, Ohio, April 
26, 1828, in the house of her grandfather, Major Samuel Finley, 
of the Virginia Cavalry, in the War of the Revolution, and a per¬ 
sonal friend of Washington, who, while President, appointed him 
Collector of Public Monies” for the Northwestern Territory of 


which Ohio was then a part. In the war of 1812—14 Major Finley marched to 
Detroit to the assistance of General Hull, at the head of a regiment of Ohio 
volunteers in which his eldest son, James Brown Finley, then a lad of eighteen, was 
a lieutenant. On Hull's disgraceful surrender those troops were paroled and 
returned to their homes in Ohio. James Finley afterwards became a physician and 
married his mother’s niece, Maria Theresa Brown. Martha was their sixth child. 
In the spring of 1836 Dr. Finley left Ohio for South Bend, Indiana, where he 
resided until his death in 1851. 

Something more than a year later Martha joined a widowed sister in New York 
city and resided there with her for about eighteen months. It was then and there 
she began her literary career by writing a newspaper story and a little Sunday- 
school book, But she was broken down in health and half blind from astigmatism ; 
so bad a case that the oculist’who years afterward measured her eyes for glasses, told 
her she would have been excusable had she said she could not do anything at all. 
But she loved books and would manage to read and write in spite of the difficulty 
of so doing; and a great difficulty it was, for in the midst of a long sentence the 
letters would seem to be thrown into confusion, and it ivas necessary to look away 
from the book or close her eyes for an instant before they would resume their proper 
positions. 

But orphaned and dependent upon her own exertions, she struggled on, teach¬ 
ing and writing, living sometimes in Philadelphia with a stepmother who was kind 
enough to give her a home, sometimes in Phoenixville, Pa., where she taught a 
little select school. It was there she began the Elsie Series which have proved her 
most successful venture in literature. The twenty-second volume, published in 
1897, is entitled Elsie at Home. The author has again and again proposed to end 
the series, thinking it long enough, but public and publishers have insisted upon 
another and yet another volume. The books have sold so well that they have made 





















































EDWARD S. ELLIS 

*s3f e 5f'W — ’**- 4*s „ € Jk- *» -»»s. 


MARTHA FINLEY > 

1 j%or*q K or £ 5 

^ IA lir 


HORATIO ALGER JR 

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LOUISA M.ALCOTT 


AUTHOR Of UTTtf WQMSH 


























MARTHA FINLEY. 


321 


her a lovely home in Elkton, Maryland, whither she removed in 1876 and still 
resides, and to yield her a comfortable income. 

But hei woiks are not all juveniles. “Wanted a Pedigree,” and most of the 
other woiks in the Finley Series are for adults, and though not so very popular as 
the Elsie Books, still have steady sales though nearly all have been on the market 
for more than twenty years. 


1 


ELSIE’S DISAPPOINTMENT* 

(FROM “ ELSIE DINSMORE.”) 


HE school-room at Roselands was a very 
pleasant apartment. Within sat Miss Day 
with her pupils, six in number. 

“ Young ladies and gentlemen,” said she, looking at 
her watch, “ I shall leave you to your studies for an 
hour; at the end of which time I shall return to hear 
your recitations, when those who have attended 
properly to their duties will be permitted to ride out 
with me to visit the fair.” 

“ Oh ! that will be jolly ! ” exclaimed Arthur, a 
bright-eyed, mischief-loving boy of ten. 

“ Hush ! ” said Miss Day sternly; 44 let me hear 
no more such exclamations ; and remember that you 
will not go unless your lessons are thoroughly learned. 
Louise and Lora,” addressing tw r o young girls of the 
respective ages of twelve and fourteen, “ that French 
exercise must be perfect, and your English lessons as 
well. Elsie,” to a little girl of eight, sitting alone at 
a desk near one of the windows, and bending over a 
slate with an appearance of great industry, “ every 
figure of that example must be correct, your geography 
lesson recited perfectly, and a page in your copy-book 
written without a blot.” 

“ Yes, ma’am,” said the child meekly, raising a pair 
of large soft eyes of the darkest hazol for an instant 
to her teacher’s face, and then dropping them again 
upon her slate. 

“ And see that none of you leave the room until I 
return,” continued the governess. “Walter, if you 
miss one word of that spelling, you will have to stay 
at home and learn it over.” 

“ Unless mamma interferes, as she will be pretty 
sure to do,” muttered Arthur, as the door closed on 
Miss Day, and her retreating footsteps were heard 
passing down the hall. 

For about ten minutes after her departure, all was 



quiet in the school-room, each seemingly completely 
absorbed in study. But at the end of that time 
Arthur sprang up, and, flinging his book across the 
room, exclaimed, “ There ! I know my lesson ; and if 
I didn’t, I shouldn’t study another bit for old Day, or 
Night either.” 

“ Do be quiet, Arthur,” said his sister Louise; “ I 
can’t study in such a racket.” 

Arthur stole on tiptoe across the room, and com¬ 
ing up behind Elsie, tickled the back of her neck 
with a feather. 

She started, saying in a pleading tone, “Please, 
Arthur, don’t.” 

“ It pleases me to do,” he said, repeating the ex¬ 
periment. 

Elsie changed her position, saying in the same 
gentle, persuasive tone, “ 0 Arthur! please let me 
alone, or I never shall be able to do this example.” 

“ What! all this time on one example ! you ought 
to be ashamed. Why, I could have done it half a 
dozen times over.” 

“ I have been over and over it,” replied the little 
girl in a tone of despondency, “ and still there are two 
figures that will not come right.” 

“ How do you know they are not right, little puss ? ” 
shaking her curls as he spoke. 

“ Oh ! please, Arthur, don’t pull my hair. I have 
the answer—that’s the way I know.” 

Well, then, why don’t you just set the figures 
down. I would.” 

“ Oh ! no, indeed ; that would not be honest.” 

“ Pooh ! nonsense ! nobody would be the wiser, nor 
the poorer.” 

“ No, but it would be just like telling a lie. But I 
can never get it right while you are bothering me so,” 
said Elsie, laying her slate aside in despair. Then* 


* Copyright, 1893, Dodd, Mead & Co 


21 P. H, 













322 


MARTHA FINLEY. 




iaking out her geography, she began studying most 
diligently. But Arthur continued his persecutions— 
tickling her, pulling her hair, twitching the book out 
of her hand, and talking almost incessantly, making 
remarks, and asking questions ; till at last Elsie said, 
as if just ready to cry, “ Indeed, Arthur, if you don’t 
let me alone, I shall never be able to get my lessons.” 

“ Go away, then ; take your book out on the ve¬ 
randa, and learn your lessons there,” said Louise. 
“ I’ll calbyou when Miss Day comes.” 

“ Oh ! no, Louise, I cannot do that, because it 
would be disobedience,” replied Elsie, taking out her 
writing materials. 

Arthur stood over her criticising every letter she 
made, and finally jogged her elbow in such a way as 
to cause her to drop all the ink in her pen upon the 
paper, making quite a large blot. 

“ Oh !” cried the little girl, bursting into tears, 
“ now I shall lose my ride, for Miss Day will not let 
me go ; and I was so anxious to see all those beauti¬ 
ful flowers.” 

Arthur, who was really not very vicious, felt some 
compunction when he saw the mischief he had done. 
“ Never mind, Elsie,” said he, “ I can fix it yet. Just 
let me tear out this page, and you can begin again on 
the next, and I’ll not bother you. I’ll make these 
two figures come right, too,” he added, taking up her 
slate. 

“ Thank you, Arthur,” said the little girl, smiling 
through her tears; “ you are very kind, but it would 
not be honest to do either, and I had rather stay at 
home than be deceitful.” 

“ Very well, miss,” said he, tossing his head, and 
walking away, “ since you won’t let me help you, it 
is all your own fault if you have to stay at home.” 

Elsie finished her page, and, excepting the unfortu¬ 
nate blot, it all looked very neat indeed, showing plainly 
that it had been written with great care. She then 
took up her slate and patiently went over and over 
every figure of the troublesome example, trying to 
discover where her mistake had been. But much 
time had been lost through Arthur’s teasing, and her 
mind was so disturbed by the accident to her writing 
that she tried in vain to fix it upon the business in 
hand ; and before the two troublesome figures had been 
made right, the hour was past and Miss Day returned. 

“ Oh ! ” thought Elsie, “ if she will only hear the 


others first; ” but it was a vain hope. Miss Day haa 
no sooner seated herself at her desk than she called, 
“ Elsie, come here and say that lesson; and bring 
your copy-book and slate, that I may examine your 
work.” 

Elsie tremblingly obeyed. 

The lesson, though a difficult one, was very tolera¬ 
bly recited ; for Elsie, knowing Arthur’s propensity 
for teasing, had studied it in her own room before 
school hours. But Miss Day handed back the books 
with a frown, saying, “ I told you the recitation must 
be perfect, and it was not. There are two incorrect 
figures in this example,” said she, laying down the 
slate, after glancing over its contents. Then taking 
up the copy-book, she exclaimed, “ Careless, diso¬ 
bedient child ! did I not caution you to be careful not 
to blot your book ? There will be no ride for you this 
morning. You have failed in everything. Go to your 
seat. Make that example right, and do the next j 
learn your geography lesson over, and write another 
page in your copy-book ; and mind, if there is a blot 
on it, you will get no dinner.” 

Weeping and sobbing, Elsie took up her books and 
obeyed. 

During this scene Arthur stood at his desk pretend¬ 
ing to study, but glancing every now and then at 
Elsie, with a conscience evidently ill at ease. She 
cast an imploring glance at him, as she returned to 
her seat; but he turned away his head, muttering, 
“ It’s all her own fault, for she wouldn’t let me help 
her.” 

As he looked up again, he caught his sister Lora’s 
eyes fixed on him with an expression of scorn and 
contempt. He colored violently, and dropped his 
upon his book. 

“ Miss Day,” said Lora, indignantly, “ I see Arthur 
does not mean to speak, and as I cannot bear to see 
such injustice, I must tell you that it is all his fault 
that Elsie has failed in her lessons ; for she tried her 
very best, but he teased her incessantly, and also 
jogged her elbow and made her spill the ink on her 
book ; and to her credit she was too honorable to tear 
out the leaf from her copy-book, or to let him make 
her example right; both which he very generously 
proposed doing after causing all the mischief.” 

“ Is this so, Arthur ? ” asked Miss Day, angrily 

The boy hung his head, but made no reply. 






MARTHA FINLEY. 


323 


“ Very well, then,” said Miss Day, “ you too must 
stay at home.” 

“ Surely,” said Lora, in surprise, “ you will not 
keep Elsie, since I have shown you that she was not 
to blame.” 

“Miss Lora,” replied her teacher, haughtily, “I 
wish you to understand that I am not to be dictated 
to by my pupils.” 

Lora bit her lip, but said nothing, and Miss Day 
went on hearing the lessons without further remark. 

In the meantime the little Elsie sat at her desk, 
striving to conquer the feelings of anger and indigna¬ 
tion that were swelling in her breast; for Elsie, 
though she possessed much of “ the ornament of a 
meek and quiet spirit,” was not yet perfect, and often 
had a fierce contest with her naturally quick temper. 
Yet it was seldom, very seldom that word or tone or 
look betrayed the existence of such feelings; and it 
was a common remark in the family that Elsie had 
no spirit. 

The recitations were scarcely finished when the 
door opened and a lady entered dressed for a ride. 

“ Not through yet, Miss Day ?” she asked. 

w Yes, madam, we are just done,” replied the 
teacher, closing the French grammar and handing it 
to Louise. 

“ Well, I hope your pupils have all done their duty 
this morning, and are ready to accompany us to the 
fair,” said Mrs. Dinsmore. “ But what is the matter 
with Elsie ? ” 

“ She has failed in all her exercises, and therefore 
has been told that she must remain at home,” replied 
Miss Day with heightened color and in a tone of 


anger; “ and as Miss Lora tells me that Master 
Arthur was partly the cause, I have forbidden him 
also to accompany us.” 

“ Excuse me, Miss Day, for correcting you,” said 
Lora, a little indignantly; “ but I did not say partly, 
for I am sure it was entirely his fault.” 

“ Hush, hush, Lora,” said her mother, a little im¬ 
patiently ; “ how can you be sure of any such thing; 
Miss Day, I must beg of you to excuse Arthur this 
once, for I have quite set my heart on taking him 
along. He is fond of mischief, I know, but he is 
only a child, and you must not be too hard upon 
him.” 

“ Very well, madam,” replied the governess stiffly, 
“ you have of course the best right to control your 
own children.” 

Mrs. Dinsmore turned to leave the room. 

“ Mamma,” asked Lora, “is not Elsie to be allowed 
to go too ? ” 

“ Elsie is not my child, and I have nothing to say 
about it. Miss Day, who knows all the circum¬ 
stances, is much better able than I to judge whether 
or no she is deserving of punishment,” replied Mrs. 
Dinsmore, sailing out of the room. 

“ You will let her go, Miss Day ?” said Lora, in¬ 
quiringly. 

“ Miss Lora,” replied Miss Day, angrily, “ I have 
already told you I was not to be dictated to. I have 
said Elsie must remain at home, and I shall not break 
my word.” 

“ Such injustice ! ” muttered Lora, turning away. 

Miss Day hastily quitted the room, followed by 
Louise and Lora, and Elsie was left alone. 










MARY MAPES DODGE, 


EDITOR OF “ST. NICHOLAS” MAGAZINE. 



T would be difficult to name a writer of later years who has done more 
to delight the children with bright and chatty sunny-day stories 
than this estimable woman. While her mind has all the maturity, 
power, good judgment and strength of our best writers, her heart 
seems never to have grown out of the happy realm of childhood. It 
is for them that she thinks, and it is for them that she writes her 
charming stories when she is in her happiest moods. Not that she cannot write for 
grown up people, for she has given them several books—very good ones too. She 
edited “ Hearth and Home ” at one time, and many a mother remembers her good 
advice in bright and cheerful editorials, on the art of home-making, and on 
the care and training of children. She is also a humorous writer of considerable 
ability. “ Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question ” is one of her most amusing 
sketches. Mary Mapes was born in New York city, in 1838. Prof. James Mapes, 
the scientist, was her father. She married Mr. William Dodge, a lawyer, who lived 
only a few years, and it was after his death that she began to write for the “ Hearth 
and Home ” to which Donald G. Mitchell (Ik Marvel) and Mrs. Harriet Beecher 
Stowe were at that time, also, contributors. 

In 1864 Mrs. Dodge’s first volume entitled, “ Irving Stories,” for children, 
appeared. It met with great success, and in 1865 she issued her second volume, 
“ Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates,” a charming story for boys and girls. The 
scene was laid in Holland. The book was so popular that it was translated into 
French, German, Dutch, Russian and other languages and became a little classic. 
She wrote a number of other books, among which are “A Few Friends, and How 
They Amused Themselves ” (1869); “ Rhymes and Jingles ” (1874); “Theophilus 
and Others ; ” “ Along the Way,” a volume of poems, and “ Donald and Dorothy.” 

In 1873 the “St. Nicholas” Magazine for young folks was commenced and Mrs. 
Dodge was made its editor, which position she still retains in 1897, and its popu¬ 
larity and brightness have given her a permanent place in the hearts of the boys 
and girls for the last quarter century. 

Mrs. Dodge has long been a leader in the literary and artistic circles in New 
York, where she has a pleasant home. She had two fine boys of her own and it is 
said her first stories were written for their amusement. One of her sons died in 
1881. The other, a successful inventor and manufacturer, lives in Philadelphia. 





















































MARY MAPES DODGE. 


325 


TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING* 

(FROM “ DONALD AND DOROTHY.”) 


UST as Donald and Dorothy were about to 
end the outdoor visit to the Danbys, de¬ 
scribed in our last chapter, Coachman 
Jack was seen in a neighboring field, trying to 
catch Mr. Reed’s spirited mare, “ Lady,” that had 
been let out to have a run. He had already ap¬ 
proached her without difficulty and slipped a bridle 
over her head, but she had started away from him, 
and he, feeling that she had been allowed playtime 
enough, was now bent on recapturing her. 

Instantly a dozen Danby eyes were watching them 
with intense interest. Then Donald and Ben, not 
being able to resist the impulse, scampered over to join 
in the race, closely followed by Dan and Fandy. Greg¬ 
ory, too, would have gone, but Charity called him back. 

It was a superb sight to see the spirited animal, 
one moment standing motionless at a safe distance 
from Jack, and the next, leaping about the field, 
mane and tail flying, and every action telling of a de¬ 
fiant enjoyment of freedom. Soon, two grazing horses 
in the same field caught her spirit; even Don’s pony 5 
at first looking soberly over a hedge in the adjoining 
lot, began frisking and capering about on his own 
account, dashing past an opening in the hedge as 
though it were as solid a barrier as the rest. Nor 
were Jack and the boys less frisky. Coaxing and 
shouting had failed, and now it was an open chase, 
in which, for a time, the mare certainly had the ad¬ 
vantage. But what animal is proof against its appe¬ 
tite? Clever little Fandy had rushed to Mr. Reed’s 
barn, and brought back in his hat a light lunch of 
oats for the mare, which he at once bore into her 
presence, shaking it temptingly, at the same time 
slowly backing away from her. The little midget and 
his hatful succeeded, where big man and boys had 
failed. The mare came cautiously up and was about 
to put her nose into the cap, when Jack’s stealthy 
and sudden effort to seize the bridle made her start 
sidewise away from him. But here Donald leaped 
forward at the other side, and caught her before she 
had time to escape again. 

Jack was too proud of Don’s quickness to appear 
surprised ; so, disregarding the hilarious shout of the 
Danby boys, he took the bridle from the young master 


with an off-hand air, and led the now gentle animal 
quietly towards the stable. 

But Dorothy was there before him. Out of breath 
after her brisk run, she was panting and tugging at a 
dusty side-saddle hanging in the harness-room, when 
Jack and the mare drew near. 

“ Oh, Jack!” she cried, “help me to get this 
down! I mean to have some fun. I’m going to 
ride that mare back to the field ! ” 

“ Not you, Miss Dorry ! ” exclaimed Jack. “ Take 
your own pony, an’ your own saddle, an’ it’s a go; 
but this ’ere mare’d be on her beam ends with you in 
no time. 

“ Oh, no, she wouldn’t, Jack! She knows me per¬ 
fectly. Don’t you, Lady? Oh, do, Jack! That's a 
good Jack. Please let me ! Don’s there, you know.” 

Dorry said this as if Don were a regiment. By 
this time, the side-saddle, yielding to her vigorous 
efforts, had clattered down from its peg, with a pecu¬ 
liar buckle-and-leatliery noise of its own. 

“ Won’t you, Jack ? Ah, wont you ? ” 

“ No, miss, I won’t! ” said Jack, resolutely. 

“ Why, Jack, I’ve been on her before. Don’t you 
know ? There isn’t a horse on the place that could 
throw me. Uncle said so. Don’t you remember? ” 

“ So he did ! ” said Jack, his eyes sparkling proudly. 
“ The Capt’n said them very words. An’,” glancing 
weakly at the mare, “ she’s standin ’ now like a skiff 
in a calm. Not a breath in her sails—” 

“ Oh, do— do, Jack ! ” coaxed Dorry, seizing her 
advantage, “ quick ! They’re all in the lot yet. Here, 
put it on her ! ” 

“ I’m an old fool,” muttered Jack to himself, as, 
hindered by Dorry’s busy touches, he proceeded to 
saddle the subdued animal; “ but I can’t never re¬ 
fuse her nothin’—that’s where it is. Easy now, miss! ” 
as Dorry, climbing up on the feed-box in laughing 
excitement, begged him to hurry and let her mount 
“ Easy now. There! You’re on, high and dry. 
Here” (tugging at the girth), “kt me tauten up a 
bit! Steady now! Don’t try no capers with her, 
Miss Dorry, and come back in a minute. Get up, 
Lady !—get up ! ” 

The mare left the stable so slowly and unwillingly, 



Copyright, Mary Mapes Dodge. 






326 


MARY MAPES DODGE. 


that Jack slapped her flank gently as she moved off. 
Jog jog went Lady out through the wide stable 
doorway, across the yard into the open field. Dorry, 
hastily arranging her skirts and settling herself com¬ 
fortably upon the grand but dingy saddle (it had been 
Aunt Kate’s in the days gone by), laughed to herself, 
thinking how astonished they all must be to see her 
riding Lady back to them. For a moment she play¬ 
fully pretended to be unconscious of their gaze. Then 
she looked up. 

Poor Dorry! Not a boy, not even Donald, had 
remained in the field! He and the little Danbys 
were listening to one of Ben’s stories of adventure. 
Even the two horses and Don’s pony were quietly 
nosing the dry grass in search of green tufts. 

“ I don’t care,” she murmured gayly, overcoming 
her disappointment. “ I mean to have a ride, any 
way. Get up, Lady ! ” 

Lady did get up. She shook her head, pricked 
up her ears, and started off at a beautiful canter 
across the fields. 

“ How lovely ! ” thought Dorry, especially pleased 
at that moment to see several figures coming toward 
her from the Danby yard ; “ it’s just like flying ! ” 

Whether Lady missed her master’s firm grip upon 
the rein, or whether she guessed her rider’s thought, 
and was inspired by the sudden shouts and hurrahs 
of the approaching boys, can never be known. Cer¬ 
tain it is that by the next moment Dorry, on Lady’s 
back, was flying in earnest,—flying at great speed 
round and round the field, but with never an idea of 
falling off. Her first feeling was that her uncle and 
Jack wouldn’t be pleased if they knew the exact 
character of the ride. Next came a sense of triumph, 
because she felt that Don and the rest were seeing it 
all, and then a wild consciousness that her hat was 
off, her hair streaming to the wind, and that she was 
keeping her seat for dear life. 

Lady’s canter had become a run, and the run soon 
grew into a series of leaps. Still Dorry kept her 
seat. Young as she was, she was a fearless rider, 
and at first, as we have seen, rather enjoyed the pros¬ 
pect of a tussle with Lady. But as the speed in¬ 
creased, Dorry found herself growing deaf, dumb and 
blind in the breathless race. Still, if she could only 
hold on, all would be well; she certainly could not 
consent to be conquered before “ those boys.” 


Lady seemed to go twenty feet in the air at every 
leap. There was no merry shouting now. The little 
boys stood pale and breathless. Ben, trying to hold 
Don back, was wondering what was to be done, and 
Charity was wringing her hands. 

“ Oh, oh ! She’ll be thrown ! ” cried the girls. 

“ Not a bit of it! ” insisted Donald. “ I’ve seen 
Dot on a horse before.” But his looks betrayed his 
anxiety. “ See ! the mare’s trying to throw her now ! 
But she can’t do it—she can’t do it! Dot under¬ 
stands herself, I tell you,—Whoa-o !—Let me go ! ” 
and, breaking from Ben, he tore across the field, 
through the opening in the hedge, and was on his 
pony’s back in a twinkling. How he did it, he never 
knew. He had heard Dorry scream, and somehow 
that scream made him and his pony one. Together, 
they flew over the field ; with a steady, calm purpose, 
they cut across Lady’s course, and soon were at her 
side. Donald’s “ Hold on, Dot! ” was followed by 
his quick plunge toward the mare. It seemed that 
she certainly would ride over him, but he never 
faltered. Grasping his pony’s mane with one hand, 
he clutched Lady’s bridle with the other. The mare 
plunged, but the boy’s grip was as firm as iron. 
Though almost dragged from his seat, he held on, and 
the more she struggled, the harder he tugged,—th^ 
pony hearing itself nobly, and quivering in eager 
smypathy with Donald’s every movement. Jack and 
Ben were now tearing across the field, bent on rescue ; 
but they were not needed. Don was master of the 
situation. The mare, her frolic over, had yielded 
with superb grace, almost as if with a bow, and the 
pony was rubbing its nose against her steaming 
side. 

“ Good for you, Dot! ” was Donald’s first word. 
“You held on magnificently.” 

Dorothy stroked Lady’s hot neck, and for a mo¬ 
ment could not trust herself to look up. But when 
Jack half-pulled, half-lifted her from the saddle, and 
she felt the firm earth beneath her, she tottered and 
would have fallen, had not Donald, frightened at her 
white face, sprung to the ground just in time to sup¬ 
port her. 

“ Shiver my timbers! ” growled Jack, “ if ever I 
let youngsters have their way again ! ” But his eyes 
shone with a strange mixture of self-reproach and 
satisfaction as he looked at Dorry. 




HORACE GREELEY, 

THE FOUNDER OF MODERN JOURNALISM. 

HE men of whom we love to read are those who stand for some great 
principle, whose lives and deeds exemplify its power. When we 
think of patriotism, the figure of Washington rises before us, as the 
man whose life, above all others, was controlled by pure love of 
country. Practical wisdom, shrewdness, and thrift are embodied in 
Benjamin Franklin. Astor and Girard represent the power of 
accumulation; Stewart, Carnegie, and Pullman, the power of organization; and so, 
when we consider the power of the press, the image which comes up before our 
mental view is that of Horace Greeley. In almost every personal quality there 
have been men who far surpassed him,—men who were greater as politicians, as 
organizers, as statesmen, as speakers, as writers,—but in the one respect of influenc¬ 
ing public opinion through the press, of “ making his mind the mind of other men,” 
no man in America has ever wielded such power as the great editor and founder of 
the New York “ Tribune.” 

Hoi *ace Greeley was one of the poor country boys who have afterward become the 
bone and sinew of the Republic. He was born in Amherst, New Hampshire, in 
1811. His father, Zaccheus Greeley, was a struggling farmer. He moved to Ver¬ 
mont in 1821, and a few years later to the western part of Pennsylvania. Horace 
was a precocious child ; and his mother, Mary Woodburn, who was of Scotch-Irish 
stock, used to recite to him ballads and stories, so that he really acquired a taste for 
literature before the age at which many children conquer the alphabet. 

In his fifteenth year Horace felt that he could endure farming no longer, and at 
last procured from his father a reluctant consent that he should definitely seek 
employment as a printer. He found the longed-for opportunity at East Poultney, 
Vermont, in the office of the “ Northern Spectator.” 

In 1830, before Horace’s apprenticeship ended, the “Spectator” collapsed, and he 
was again set adrift. His father had removed to Western Pennsylvania, and the 
boy turned his face in that direction. After working for a few months on different 
country papers, he resolved to try his fortune in New York, and went to that city in 
August, 1831. 

After two years of labor as a printer, so arduous that during much of the time it 
extended to fourteen hours a day, Mr. Greeley commenced his first editorial work 
upon a weekly paper called the “New Yorker” of which he was part owner and 
which lasted until March, 1841, when it went under, with a credit on its books of 
26 3 2 7 









































HORACE GREELEY. 


328 

$10,000 due to Mr. Greeley for editing tlie paper, all of whicn was sunk with the 
wreck. 

In the famous campaign of 1840, when Harrison was “ sung and shouted into the 
presidential chair,” Greeley started a small weekly called the “ Log Cabin.” He 
threw all his spirit and energy into it; he made it lively, crisp, and cheap. It 
attained an almost unheard-of success, reaching editions of eighty and ninety thou¬ 
sand. It was continued for several months after the triumphant election of Har¬ 
rison, and then merged into the New York “ Tribune,” which Greeley started at this 
time, the first issue appearing April 10, 1841. 

The new enterprise soon became successful. It was helped at the start by a bitter 
attack from the “ Sun,” then in the hands of Moses Y. Beach. The defense and 
rejoinders were equally pungent and amusing. Mr. Greeley always throve best 
upon opposition. His spicy retorts, and especially his partisan enthusiasm, forced 
the attention of the public, and the subscription-list of the “Tribune” soon rose from 
hundreds to thousands ; by the third week in May it had 10,000 names on its books. 

One thing in particular gave the “Tribune” eminence ; that was Greeley’s policy of 
employing as contributors the best writers of the time. To name all the able men 
and women who thus won fame for both themselves and the “Tribune,” would make a 
list too long to print; but among them may be mentioned Bayard Taylor, whose 
“Views Afoot” first appeared in the form of letters to the “ Tribune; ” Margaret 
Fuller, whose articles gave her a wide reputation ; George Ripley, Moncure D. 
Conway, Sydney Howard Gay, and George W. Smalley ; and for years Thomas 
Hughes, the popular author of “ Tom Brown at Oxford,” sent frequent and able 
letters from London. The result of this liberal policy was to make the “Tribune” 
indispensable to people of intelligence, even though utterly opposed to its political 
views. 

In 1848 Mr. Greeley was elected to Congress, but his strength was as a journalist, 
not as a legislator. At the close of his brief term he retired from Congress, and 
during the stormy decade preceding the Civil War he made the “Tribune” a mighty 
power. He warmly espoused the cause of freedom, and denounced the Fugitive 
Slave Law, the Kansas-Nebraska Bill, and the endless aggressions of the slave power 
with a vigor and pertinacity which made him one of the best-hated men in America. 
His course was not always consistent; and he often brought upon his head the 
wrath of friends as well as enemies. Moreover, in the conduct of a great daily paper 
much must be left to the judgment of subordinates ; and all their mistakes were, of 
course, laid to the charge of their chief. Many of the old readers of the “Tribune” 
supposed that every line in the paper was actually written by Horace Greeley. He 
rarely took the trouble to justify or explain ; and, therefore, while in one sense one 
of the best-known men in the country, he was one of the most misunderstood. Mr. 
Greeley had no time or thought for personal explanations; he was bent upon saving 
the country,—individuals could take care of themselves. 

During the war Mr. Greeley’s course was somewhat erratic and unstable, but he 
kept a hold upon a large class of readers who believed in him, to whom he was a 
mental and moral lawgiver, who refused to believe any evil of him ; and, if some 
visitor to the city—for a large proportion of “Tribune” readers were country, and par¬ 
ticularly Western, people—on coming back, reported that in an interview with Mr. 



HORACE GREELEY. 


329 


Greeley the editor had indulged in unlimited profanity, the unlucky individual was 
incontinently discredited and voted a calumniator. 

. In the years following the war, Greeley’s pen was more busy than ever. Beside 
his editorial writing in the “ Tribune,” lie prepared the second volume of his war 
history, “ The American Conflict,” and his delightful autobiography, “ Recollec¬ 
tions of a Busy Life.” He was always intensely interested in the growth of the 
West, where he had made a memorable tour in 1859, extending to Salt Lake City ; ■ 
and now he unceasingly advocated western emigration. His terse advice, “ Go' 
West, young man, and grow up with the country,” became a sort of national watch¬ 
word, and many thousands of Eastern people resolved to turn their faces toward the 
empire of the West. 

In 1872 a curious political combination was made. Probably such a surprise 
was never sprung upon the country as the nomination of Horace Greeley for the 
Presidency, by a convention of “ Liberal Republicans ” and bolting Democrats. 
That he should be defeated at the polls was inevitable. He worked hard through 
the canvass, traveling and addressing meetings; body and mind suffered from the 
fatigue and excitement. To add to his troubles, Mrs. Greeley, who had been out of 
health for a considerable time, died at this period; his health gave way ; he became 
unable to sleep ; and sleeplessness was followed by inflammation of the brain, which 
soon ended his life. 

Horace Greeley sleeps in Greenwood Cemetery, Long Island, on a hill overlooking 
the beautiful bay of New York, and within sight of the great city where his busy 
life was spent. 


A DEBTOR’S SLAVERY. 

(FROM “ RECOLLECTIONS OF A BUSY LIFE.”) 


HE New Yorker was issued under my super¬ 
vision, its editorials written, its selections 
made for the most part by me, for seven 
years and a half from March 22, 1834. Though 
not calculated to enlist partisanship, or excite enthus¬ 
iasm, it was at length extensively liked and read. 
It began with scarcely a dozen subscribers; these 
steadily increased to 9,000 ; and it might under better 
business management (perhaps I should add, at a 
more favorable time), have proved profitable and 
permanent. That it did not was mainly owing to 
these circumstances: 1. It was not extensively adver¬ 
tised at the start, and at least annually thereafter, as 
it should have been. 2. It was never really pub¬ 
lished, though it had half-a-dozen nominal publishers 
in succession. 3. It was sent to subscribers on credit, 
and a large share of them never paid for it, and 
never will, while the cost of collecting from others 
ate up the proceeds. 4. The machinery of railroads, 


expresses, news companies, news offices, etc., whereby 
literary periodicals are now mainly disseminated, did 
not then exist. I believe that just such a paper 
issued to-day, properly published and advertised, 
would obtain a circulation of 100,000 in less time 
than was required to give the New Yorker scarcely 
a tithe of that aggregate, and would make money 
for its owners, instead of nearly starving them, as 
mine did. I was worth at least $1,500 when it 
was started; I worked hard and lived frugally 
throughout its existence ; it subsisted for the first two 
years on the profits of our job-work ; when I, deem¬ 
ing it established, dissolved with my partner, he 
taking the jobbing business and I the New Yorker , 
which held its own pretty fairly thenceforth till the 
commercial revulsion of 1837 swept over the land, 
whelming it and me in the general ruin. 

I had married in 1836, deeming myself worth 
$5,000, and the master of a business which would 











330 


HORACE GREELEY. 


thenceforth yield me for my labor at least $1,000 per 
annum; but, instead of that, or of any income at 
all, I found myself obliged throughout 1837 to con¬ 
front a net loss of about $100 per week—my income 
averaging $100, and my inevitable expenses $200. 
It was in vain that I appealed to delinquents to pay 
up; many of them migrated; some died; others 
were so considerate as to order the paper stopped, but 
very few of these paid; and I struggled on against a 
steadily rising tide of adversity that might have 
appalled a stouter heart. Often did I call on this or 
that friend with intent to solicit a small loan to meet 
some demand that could no longer be postponed nor 
evaded, and, after wasting a precious hour, leave him, 
utterly unable to broach the loathsome topic. I have 
borrowed $500 of a broker late on Saturday, and 
paid him $5 for the use of it till Monday morning, 
when I somehow contrived to return it. Most gladly 
would I have terminated the struggle by a surrender ; 
but, if I had failed to pay my notes continually fall¬ 
ing due, I must have paid money for my weekly sup¬ 
ply of paper—so that would have availed nothing. 
To have stopped my journal (for I could not give it 
away) would have left me in debt, beside my notes 
for paper, from fifty cents to two dollars each, to at 
least three thousand subscribers who had paid in ad¬ 
vance ; and that is the worst kind of bankruptcy. 
If anyone would have taken my business and debts 
off my hands, upon my giving him my note for 
$2,000, I would have jumped at the chance, and 
tried to work out the debt by setting type, if nothing 
better offered. If it be suggested that my whole 
indebtedness was at no time more than $5,000 to 
$7,000, I have only to say that even $1,000 of debt 
is ruin to him who keenly feels his obligation to fulfil 
every engagement yet is utterly without the means 
of so doing, and who finds himself dragged each 
week a little deeper into hopeless insolvency. To be 
hungry, ragged, and penniless is not pleasant; but 
this is nothing to the horrors of bankruptcy. All 
the wealth of the Rothschilds would be a poor rec¬ 
ompense for a five years’ struggle with the conscious¬ 
ness that you had taken the money or property of 


trusting friends—promising to return or pay for it 
when required—and had betrayed this confidence 
through insolvency. 

I dwell on this point, for I would deter others from 
entering that place of torment. Half the young men 
in the country, with many old enough to know better, 
would “go into business ”—that is, into debt—to¬ 
morrow, if they could. Most poor men are so ignor¬ 
ant as to envy the merchant or manufacturer whose 
life is an incessant struggle with pecuniary difficulties, 
who is driven to constant “ shinning,” and who, from 
month to month, barely evades that insolvency which 
sooner or later overtakes most men in business ; so 
that it has been computed that but one in twenty of 
them achieve a pecuniary success. For my own 
part—and I speak from sad experience—I would 
rather be a convict in a State prison, a slave in a rice 
swamp, than to pass through life under the harrow 
of debt. 

Let no young man misjudge himself unfortunate, 
or truly poor, so long as he has the full use of his 
limbs and faculties, and is substantially free from 
debt. Hunger, cold, rags, hard work, contempt, sus¬ 
picion, unjust reproach, are disagreeable; but debt is 
infinitely worse than them all. And, if it had pleased 
God to spare either or all of my sons to be the sup¬ 
port and solace of my declining years, the lesson 
which I should have most earnestly sought to impress 
upon them is—“ Never run into debt! Avoid pecu¬ 
niary obligation as you would pestilence or famine. 
If you have but fifty cents, and can get no more for 
a week, buy a peck of corn, parch it, and live on it, 
rather than owe any man a dollar ! ” Of course I 
know that some men must do business that involves 
risks, and must often give notes and other obligations, 
and I do not consider him really in debt who can lay 
his hands directly on the means of paying, at some 
little sacrifice, all that he owes ; I speak of real debt 
—which involves risk or sacrifice on the one side, 
obligation and dependence on the other—and I say, 
from all such, let every youth humbly pray God to 
preserve him evermore. 






HORACE GREELEY. 


33 1 


THE PRESS. 


ONG slumbered the world in the darkness 
of error, 

And ignorance brooded o’er earth like a 
pall; 

To the sceptre and crown men abased them in terror, 
Though galling the bondage, and bitter the thrall; 
When a voice, like the earthquake’s, revealed the 
dishonor— 

A flash, like the lightning’s, unsealed every eye, 
And o’er hill-top and glen floated liberty's banner, 
While round it men gathered to conquer or die ! 

'Twas the voice of the Press, on the startled ear 
breaking, 

In giant-born prowess, like Pallas of old; 

'Twas the flash of intelligence, gloriously waking 
A glow on the cheek of the noble and bold, 

And tyranny’s minions, o’erawed and affrighted, 
Sought a lasting retreat from its powerful control, 
And the chains which bound nations in ages 
benighted, 

Were cast to the haunts of the bat and the mole. 
Then hail to the Press ! chosen guardian of Freedom ! 


Strong sword-arm of justice ! bright sunbeam of 
truth; 

We pledge to her cause (and she has but to need 
them), 

The strength of our manhood, the fire of our 
youth; 

Should despots e’er dare to impede her free soaring, 
Or bigot to fetter her flight with his chain, 

We pledge that the earth shall close o’er oui 
deploring, 

Or view her in gladness and freedom again 

But no !—to the day-dawn of knowledge and glory, 
A far brighter noontide-refulgence succeeds , 

And our art shall embalm, through all ages, in story, 
Her champion who triumphs—her martyr who 
bleeds, 

And proudly her sons shall recall their devotion, 
While millions thall listen to honor and bless, 

Till there bursts a response from the heart's strong 
emotion, 

And the earth echoes deep with “ Long Life tc 
the Press 1 ” 














CHARLES A. DANA. 

THE FAMOUS EDITOR OF THE “SUN.” 

HE man who with Greeley made the New York “ Tribune ” one of 
the greatest powers in the land, and who, from 1868 to 1897, was 
the chief and managing editor of the New York “ Sun,” is certainly 
entitled to rank among our foremost men. Charles A. Dana lived a 
remarkable life, a life of strenuous effort and of continuous and 
notable achievement. He was born at Hinsdale, New Hampshire, 
in 1819, but his early life was passed at the village of Gaines, in Western New 
York, in Buffalo, and at Guildhall, Vermont. One of his earliest recollections was 
of being tied to a post with his mother’s garter because he had run away and gotten 
himself very muddy, thus displaying, at three years old, the restless spirit of enter¬ 
prise which did much to make him the man he was. When he was eleven years 
old he returned to Buffalo to be a clerk in his uncle’s dry goods store. He was 
very successful as a salesman, and remained in the establishment until the failure 
of the business, in 1837, when he determined to prepare himself for college. He 
said that he found the elements of Latin very hard and disagreeable work, and he 
had the greatest difficulty in remembering the paradigms. Two winter terms at a 
country school, in his early boyhood, and two years at Harvard completed Mr. 
Dana’s systematic education, as too close application affected his eyesight, and he 
was obliged to withdraw from college at the end of his sophomore year. He had 
cultivated such a taste for languages, however, that no year since passed which he 
did not devote in part to serious study, and he became master of most spoken lan¬ 
guages except the Slavonic and Oriental, and he began, at the age of seventy-five, 
the study of Russian. Harvard College afterward conferred upon him the degree 
which he was prevented from earning in the regular way, and is proud to count him 
among her most honored sons. 

After leaving college Mr. Dana joined that remarkable body of men and women 
who conducted the Brook Farm experiment. He distinguished himself as one of 
the very few practical men among that band of jffiilosojffiers, and gained, while at 
Brook Farm, a little experience in the newspaper business in conducting a publi¬ 
cation known as “ The Harbinger,” which was the organ of the association. 

In 1844 his eyes had sufficiently recovered to enable him to do regular work, 
and he obtained employment under Elizur Wright, better known as an insurance 
actuary than as an editor, but who then conducted “The Chronotype,” an orthodox 
newspaper, which was a great favorite with the Congregational ministers of New 






















































CHARLES A. DANA. 


333 

England. Mr. Wright used to enjoy telling how “Dana always had a weakness 
oi giving people with fixed convictions something new to think about,” and how 
le lliustiated this weakness during the absence of his chief by writing strong edi- 
toiials against the doctrine of a bill. This piece of enterprise involved the editor- 
m-chief in the labor of writing a personal letter to each of his ministerial sub- 
scnbeis, and to many others explaining how the paper “had been left in charge of 
a young man without mellow journalistic experience.” Mr. Dana’s compensation 
was five dollars per week, and at this amount it remained until 1847, when he 
joined the staff of the New T ork “Tribune” at ten dollars, a figure which was 
gradually increased to fifty dollars, which was the highest salary he ever received 
on the “Tribune.” Many delightful stories are told of the intercourse of Dana 
and Greeley. I lie part they took in politics, the fight against slavery, the organi¬ 
zation of the Republican Party, Mr. Dana’s loyal support of Greeley’s aspirations 
for political preferment, all these are a part of the political history of our country. 
Just before joining the “Tribune” staff 4 Mr. Dana was married to Miss Eunice 
MacDaniel, of New \ork. Of his delight in family life no testimony can be 
stronger than his own words written during a brief interval of leisure: “I have 
been busy with my children, drawing them about in old Bradley’s one-horse wagon, 
rowing and sailing with them on the bay and sound, gathering shells on the shore 
with them, picking cherries, lounging on the grass with the whole tribe about me. 
r l here’s no delight like that in a pack of young children of your own. ... A 
house without a baby is inhuman.” 

During these busy years Mr. Dana, together with Mr. Ripley, edited “The 
American Cyclopedia,” a work which is a monument of his care and learning and 
patient labor; and he also prepared and published a “Household Book of Poetry,” 
one of the very best collections of its kind, and one which has found its way into a 
very large number of American homes and contributed in no small measure to 
further the cause of good literature. In 1862 there came about a radical difference 
between Mr. Greeley and Mr. Dana as to the proper policy of the “Tribune” in 
regard to the war. The result was Mr. Dana’s withdrawal from the paper. He 
was immediately asked by Mr. Stanton to audit a large number of disputed claims 
in the quartermaster’s office at Cairo. This led to his appointment as Assistant 
Secretary of War, which position he held until the end of the Rebellion. About 
one-third of his time during this period was spent with the armies at the front. 
In this way he served as the confidential agent of the administration, and was once 
styled by Mr. Lincoln “the eyes of the Government at the front.” His reports 
were remarkable for their unconventional form, their brevity, and the completeness 
and accuracy with which they placed Stanton and Lincoln in possession of the 
exact facts. “Miles of customary military reports,” says a recent writer, “were 
worth less to Lincoln than half a dozen of Dana’s vivid sentences.” 

After the close of the war Mr. Dana spent one year in Chicago as editor of “The 
Republican.” He had been deceived about the financial basis of the enterprise, 
and was in no way responsible for its failure. Returning to New York, he organized 
the company which purchased the old “Sun” property, and started the paper on a 
long career of success and of influence. He was probably the most independent man 
who ever managed a great newspaper. He possessed the power of working without 


334 


CHARLES A. DANA. 


that conscious effort which characterizes the activity of most men, and which seems 
to be the source of so many early break-downs. He was not easily disturbed. At the 
“Sun” office, they like to tell a doubtful story of the old days when the work of 
the paper was conducted in four small rooms. The city editor came hurriedly in 
exclaiming, “Mr. Dana, there’s a man out there with a cocked revolver. He is 
very much excited. He insists on seeing the editor-in-chief.” “Is he very much 
excited?” said Mr. Dana, hardly looking up from his work, “if you think it 
worth the space, ask Amos Cummings if he will kindly see the gentleman and 
write him up.” A noted sensational clergyman once volunteered to write, under an 
assumed name, for the “Sun.” He foolishly tried to adapt himself to what he 
imagined was the irresponsible tone of a Sunday paper, and there can be no doubt 
that Mr. Dana enjoyed writing in blue pencil across the back of his first article, 
“This is too wicked.” 

During the winter the great editor occupied his house on Madison Avenue and 
Sixtieth Street, but his summer house was on a little island, two or three miles from 
Glen Cove, which his wide knowledge of trees and fruits and flowers enabled him 
to make a singularly delightful spot. In the summer of 1897, when Mr. Dana was 
approaching his eightieth year, and still continued to manage his great newspaper, 
surrounded by a corps of trained and efficient men, he was attacked with a serious 
illness, and passed away on the afternoon of October 17th. It is doubted whether 
any other man has left his mark more deeply on the nineteenth century than has 
the famous editor of the “ Sun.” 


ROSCOE CONKLING. 


(THE NEW YORK “ SUN,” APRIL 18, 1888.) 


HE most picturesque, striking, and original 
figure of American politics disappears in 
the death of Roscoe Conkling. Alike 
powerful and graceful in person, he towered above 
the masses of men in the elasticity of his talents and 
the peculiarities and resources of his mental constitu¬ 
tion as much as he did in form and bearing. Yet 
his career cannot be called a great success, and he 
was not a great man. 

Rut he was an object of great love and admiration 
to an extraordinary circle of friends, including not 
alone those who shared his opinions, but many who 
were utterly opposed to them. He was by nature a 
zealous partisan, and it was his inclination to doubt 
the good sense and the disinterestedness of those who 
were on the other side ; but, nevertheless, the strongest 
instinct of his nature was friendship, and his attach¬ 
ments stood the test of every trial except such as 
trenched upon his own personality. This he guarded 
with the swift jealousy of most intense selfhood, and 
no one could in any way impinge upon it and remain 



his friend. Then, his resentments were more lasting 
and more unchangeable than his friendships. This, 
in our judgment, was the great weakness of the man. 
Who can say that in his innermost heart Conkling 
did not deplore it ? At any rate, the candid observer 
who sums up his history must deplore it for him. 

And the recording angel, as he wrote it down, 
dropped a tear upon the word and blotted it out for¬ 
ever.” 

For a long period Mr. Conkling was a great politi¬ 
cal power in New York and in the country. This 
was during the culmination of General Grant. 
Originally Conkling was not friendly to Grant, and 
when the latter appointed his first Cabinet, the Sena¬ 
tor’s condemnation was unreserved and stinging. 
This attitude was maintained during nearly the whole 
of Grant’s first year in the Presidency. At that 
time Senator Fenton stood near the President and 
dispensed the political bounty of the Administration. 
This Conkling could not endure, and when Congress 
met in December, 1869, he was full of war. But it 







CHARLES A. DANA. 


335 


soon got abroad that Fenton was a candidate for the 
Presidency. This settled the difficulty and brought 
the rival Senator into intimate relations with the 
President. This position he ever afterwards main¬ 
tained, and it formed the most successful and to 
him the most satisfactory portion of his life. When 
Grant was finally defeated at Chicago in 1880, and 
all hopes of his restoration to the White House was 
obliterated, the Senator soon abandoned the field of 
his renown, and went back to the disappointments 
and struggles of private life. 

As we have said, friendship was the greatest posi¬ 
tive force in Mr. Conkling’s character, and there 
never was any hesitation or any meanness in his 
bestowal of it. In this respect he was the most 
democratic of men. He was just as warmly devoted 
to persons holding low places in the social scale as to 
the great and powerful, and he was just as scrupu¬ 
lous in his observation of all the duties of a friend 
toward the one kind of people as toward the other. 
There was nothing snobbish about him. He would 
go as far and exert himself as greatly to serve a poor 
man who was his friend as to serve one who was rich 
and mighty. This disposition he carried into politics. 
He had very little esteem for office-giving as a politi¬ 
cal method; but if a friend of his wanted a place, 
he would get it for him if he could. But no impor¬ 
tant politician in New York ever had fewer men ap¬ 
pointed on the ground that they were his friends or 
supporters. His intense and lofty pride could not 
thus debase itself. 

It is esteemed a high thing that with all the 
powers he wielded and the opportunities opened to 
him under a President the least scrupulous ever 
known in our history as regards jobbery and corrup¬ 
tion, Mr. Conkling never pocketed a copper of in¬ 
decent and dishonorable gain in the course of his 
public life. It is a high thing, indeed, and his bit¬ 
terest enemies cannot diminish the lustre of the fact. 
The practice' of public robbery was universal. Thiev¬ 
ery was rampant everywhere in the precincts of the 
Administration. The Secretary of the Navy plun¬ 
dered millions. The Secretary of War sold public 
places and put the swag in his pocket. The Secretary 
of the Interior was forced by universal indignation to 
resign his ill-used office. The private secretaries of 
the President dealt in whiskey and defrauded the 


revenue. The vast gambling scheme of Black Friday 
had its fulcrum within the portals of the White 
House, and counted the President’s own family 
among its conspirators. It was a period of shame¬ 
less, ineffable, unblushing villainy pervading the high¬ 
est circles of public power. And while all Republi¬ 
can statesmen, leaders, and journalists knew it, con¬ 
doned it, defended it even, the best they could, Mr. 
Conkling was the special spokesman, advocate, and 
orator of the Administration which was the creator of 
a situation so unprecedented and revolting. But 
while he thus lived and moved in the midst of cor¬ 
ruption, he was not touched by it himself. The pro¬ 
tector of brigands and scoundrels before the tribunal 
of public opinion, he had no personal part in their 
crimes and no share in their spoils. As the poet 
went through hell without a smutch upon his gar¬ 
ments, so the proud Senator, bent chiefly upon the 
endurance of the Republican party, came out of that 
epoch of public dishonesty as honest and as stainless 
as he entered it. 

In the records of the higher statesmanship it can 
be said that there is very much to the credit of Mr. 
Conkling’s account. As a parliamentary champion 
he had perhaps no superior; but others appear to 
have originated and perfected the measures to which 
in either House of Congress he gave the support of 
potent logic, fertile illustration, aggressive repartee, 
and scathing sarcasm. We do not recall a single one of 
the great and momentous acts of Congress which were 
passed in his time, of which he can certainly be pro¬ 
nounced the author. Yet his activity was prodigious, 
and it was a strange freak of his complicated charac¬ 
ter to bring before the House or Senate, through 
others, propositions which he thought essential. His 
hand could often be recognized in motions and reso-. 
lutions offered on all sides of the chamber, and often 
by members with whom he was not known to be 
familiar. 

The courage of Mr. Conkling, moral as well as per¬ 
sonal, was of a heroic strain. After his mind was 
made up, he feared no odds, and he asked no favor. 
He dared to stand out against his own party, and he, 
a Republican, had the nerve to confront and defy the 
utmost power of a Republican administration. There 
was something magnanimous, too, in the way he 
bore misfortune. After the death of a distinguished 




33 s 


CHARLES A. DANA. 


man, with whom he had been very intimate, it was 
ascertained that his estate instead of being wealthy, 
was bankrupt. Mr. Conkling was an endorser of his 
notes for a large sum of money, and saying calmly, 
“He would have done as much for me,” he set 
himself to the laborious task of earning the means to 
pay off the debt. He paid it in no long time, and 
we don’t believe that any man ever heard him mur¬ 
mur at the necessity. 

In social life Mr. Conkling endeared himself to his 
intimates, not only by the qualities which we have 
endeavored to describe and indicate, but by the rich¬ 
ness of his conversation, and the wit and humor— 
sometimes rather ponderous—with which it was 
seasoned, and by the stores of knowledge which he 
revealed. His reading had been extensive, especially 
in English literature, and his memory was surpris¬ 
ingly tenacious. Many of the most impressive pas¬ 
sages of oratory and of literature he could repeat 
by heart. He was fond of social discussion on all 
sorts of questions, and liked no one the less who 
courteously disagreed with him. 

As a lawyer, we suppose that his great ability was 
in cross-examination and with juries. The exigencies 
and the discussive usage of political life prevented 
that arduous, persevering application to pure law 
which is necessary to make a great jurist; but his 
intellectual powers were so vigorous and so accurate 


that he made up the deficiency of training and habit 
and no one can doubt that, if he had given himself 
to the law alone, he would have gained a position of 
the very highest distinction. As it was, the most 
eminent counsel always knew that he had a formid¬ 
able antagonist when Mr. Conkling was against him ; 
and every court listened to his arguments, not merely 
with respect, but with instruction. 

We shall be told, of course, that the supreme fault 
of this extraordinary mind was in perfection of judg¬ 
ment ; and when we consider how largely his actions 
were controlled by pride and passion, and especially 
by resentment, we must admit that the criticism is 
not wholly without foundation. There was also in his 
manner that which might justify the belief that often 
he was posing for effect, like an actor on the stage ; and 
we shall not dispute that so at times it may have 
been. But there are so few men who are entirely 
free from imperfection, and so many who inherit 
from their ancestors characteristics which ought to 
be disapproved, that we may well overlook them when 
they are combined with noble and admirable gifts. 
And after all has been said, even those whom he op¬ 
posed most strenuously, and scorned or resisted most 
unrelentingly, may remember that we are all human, 
while they let fall a tear and breathe a prayer to 
heaven as the bier of Roscoe Conkling passes on its 
way to the grave. 











LYMAN ABBOTT. CHAS. A. DANA. HENRY W. WATTERSON. 



WHITEI.AW REID. JULIAN HAWTHORNE. RICHARD HARDING DAVIS, 

NOTED AMERICAN JOURNALISTS AND MAGAZINE CONTRIBUTORS. 



































LYMAN ABBOTT. 


PASTOR OF PLYMOUTH CHURCH, EDITOR OF “ THE OUTLOOK.” 

IDE sympathies and broad Christian charity are potent factors in the 
uplifting of men, and there have been many in America who have 
exhibited these characteristics, but few possess them to a greater 
degree than the present pastor of the Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, 
Lyman Abbott. He comes of good New England stock, and was 
born December 18, 1835, at Boxbury, Massachusetts. He is the 
third son of Jacob Abbott, so dear to the children of the past generation, as the 
author of those books which were the delight of the childhood of many still living 
—the “ Bollo Books,” the “ Jonas Books,” and the “ Lucy Books.” The plain, 
practical, broad common sense in Jacob Abbott, which dictated the composition of 
these attractive realistic stories, has been inherited in large measure by his son. 
Lyman Abbott was graduated from the University of the City of New York, in 
1853, then studied law and was admitted to the bar. He soon found that the 
ministry had greater attraction for him than the law, and after studying theology 
with his uncle, John S. C. Abbott, so well-known as the author of the “Life of 
Napoleon Bonaparte,” he was ordained in 1860, a minister of the Congregational 
Church. He went the same year to take charge of a congregation at Terre Haute, 
Indiana. After five years’ work he became discouraged, for there seemed to be 
little or no fruit from his labors. He came to the conclusion that, after all, he had 
mistaken his calling, and so in 1865 he accepted the position of Secretary to the 
American Freedman’s Commission, an office which took him to New York. Beturn- 
ing to Terre Haute on a visit, he saw that his previous labors had not been in vain, 
but had brought forth abundant fruit in the lives of former members of his congre¬ 
gation. It was perhaps this fact that induced him to re-enter the ministry, and for 
three years to be the pastor of the New England Church in INew York. He did 
not, however, lay aside the literary work he had taken up while connected with the 
Freedman’s Association. He conducted the “Literary Becord in Harpers 
Monthly,” and became editor of “The Illustrated Christian Weekly” in 1871. 
BesDning his connection with other papers he became joint editor with Henry 
Ward Beecher of the “ Christian Union ” in 1876, and its chief editor in 1881. 
After some years the name of the paper was changed to The Outlook, as indicat¬ 
ing more nearly the character of the journal. In October, 188/, after the death of 
Henry Ward Beecher, he was chosen temporary Pastor of the Plymouth Church in 
Brooklyn, and later he was invited to remain permanently at the head of that large 




























LYMAM ABBOTT. 


congregation. He lias written much, and lias published a number of volumes, 
nearly all upon religious subjects, but his influence has been chiefly exerted through 
the pulpit, and especially through the columns of the “Christian Union” and 
“ The Outlook,” one of the most ably conducted weeklies in the country. Popular 
in its presentation, trenchant in its comments upon contemporary men and events, 
clear and unmistakable in its position, few papers have a more decided influence 
upon their readers. Its tone is high, and its view of what is going on in the world 
is wide and comprehensive. All subjects are treated fearlessly and independently, 
and truth, purity, and earnestness in religion and politics are insisted upon. Not 
the least interesting columns of the paper are those devoted to “Notes and Queries,” 
where, in a few well-chosen words, the difficulties of correspondents are answered, 
and at the same time valuable lessons are enforced. Lyman Abbott is one of the 
leaders of liberal Christian thought, is sympathetic with every movement for the 
advancement of mankind, a strong believer in practical Christianity, and a hater of 
all kinds of cant. 

As a speaker differing widely from his great predecessor in the Plymouth pulpit, 
Lyman Abbott’s success is due to the clearness with which he presents his subject, 
to his earnestness, and to his practical way of putting things. 


•o#— 


THE JESUITS* 

(FROM “ DICTIONARY - OF RELIGIOUS KNOWLEDGE.”) 


ESUITS is the popular name of a Society 
more properly entitled “ The Society of 
Jesus”—of all the Religious Orders of 
the Roman Catholic Church the most important. 
The Society of Jesus was founded in 1554 by 
Ignatius Loyola. He was a Spanish cavalier; was 
wounded in battle; was by his wounds, which im¬ 
paired the use of one of his legs, deprived of his 
military ambition, and during his long confinement 
found employment and relief in reading a Life of 
Christ, and Lives of the Saints. This enkindled a 
new ambition for a life of religious glory and religious 
conquest. He threw himself, with all the ardor of 
his old devotion, into his new life; carried his military 
spirit of austerity and self-devotion into his religious 
career; exchanged his rich dress for a beggar’s rags; 
lived upon alms ; practiced austerities which weakened 
his iron frame, but not his military spirit; and thus 
he prepared his mind for those diseased fancies which 
characterized this period of his extraordinay career. 

He possessed none of the intellectual requirements 
which seemed necessary for the new leadership which 
he proposed to himself. The age despised learning, 
and left it to the priests; and this Spanish cavalier, 


at the age of thirty-three, could do little more than 
read and write. He commenced at once, with 
enthusiasm, the acquisition of those elements of 
knowledge which are ordinarily acquired long before 
that age. He entered the lowest class of the College 
of Barcelona, where he was persecuted and derided 
by the rich ecclesiastics, to whose luxury his self- 
denial was a perpetual reproach. He fled at last 
from their machinations to Paris, where he continued 
his studies under more favorable auspices. Prominent 
amone: his associates here was Francis Xavier, a bril- 
liant scholar, who at first shrunk from the ill-educated 
soldier; yet gradually learned to admire his intense 
enthusiasm, and then to yield allegiance to it and its 
possessor. Several other Spaniards were drawn 
around the ascetic. At length, in 1534, Loyola, 
and five associates, in a subterranean chapel in Paris, 
pledged themselves to a religious life, and with solemn 
rites made sacred their mutual pledges to each other 
to God. 

Loyola introduced into the new order of which he 
was the founder, the principle of absolute obedience 
which he had acquired in his military career. The 
name given to its chief was the military title of 



* Copyright, Harper Bros. 







LYMAN ABBOTT. 


339 


“General.” The organization was not perfected, so 
as to receive the sanction of the Pope, until 1541 . 
Its motto was Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam —“ To the 
greater Glory of God. ” Its vows embraced not only 
the obligations of Chastity, Poverty, and Obedience, 
but also a pledge on the part of every member to go 
as missionary to any country which the Pope might 
designate. Loyola was himself the first General of 
the new Order. Its Constitution, due to him, is 
practically that of an Absolute Monarchy. The 
General is elected by a General Congregation, selected 
for the purpose by the whole body of professed mem¬ 
bers in the various Provinces. lie holds his office for 
life. A Council of Assistants aid him, but he is not 
bound by their vote. He may not alter the Consti¬ 
tution of the Society; and he is subject to deposition 
in certain contingencies; but no instance of the depo¬ 
sition of a General has ever occurred. Practically 
his w ill is absolute law, from which there is no 
appeal. 


The Jesuits are not distinguished by any particular 
dress or peculiar practices. They are permitted to 
mingle with the world, and to conform to its habits, 
if necessary for the attainment of their ends. Their 
widest influence has been exhibited in political circles, 
where, as laymen, they have attained the highest 
political positions without exciting any suspicion of 
their connection with the Society of Jesus; and in 
education they have been employed as teachers, in 
which position they have exercised an incalculable 

influence over the Church.It should 

be added that the enemies of the Order allege that, 
in addition to the public and avowed Constitution of 
the Society, there is a secret code, called Monita 
Secreta —“Secret Instructions”—which is reserved 
exclusively for the private guidance of the more 
advanced members. But as this Secret Code is 
disavowed by the Society—and since its authority is 
at least doubtful—it is not necessary to describe it 
here in detail. 


-* 0 *- 

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN* 

(from “old testament shadows.”) 


HE story of Sodom and Gomorrah epitomizes 
the Gospel. Every act in the great, the 
awful drama of life is here foreshadowed. 
The analogy is so perfect that we might almost be 
tempted to believe that the story is a prophetic 
allegory, did not nature itself witness its historic 
truthfulness. The fertile plain contained, imbedded in 
its own soil, the elements of its own destruction. There 
is reason to believe that this is true of this world on 
which we live. A few years ago an unusually bril¬ 
liant star was observed in a certain quarter of the 
heavens. At first it was thought to be a newly 
discovered sun; more careful examination resulted 
in a different hypothesis. Its evanescent character 
indicated combustion. Its brilliancy was marked for 
a few hours—a few nights at most—then it faded, 
and was gone. Astronomers believe that it was a 
burning world. Our own earth is a globe of living 
fire. Only a thin crust intervenes between us and 
this fearful interior. Ever and anon, in the rumbling 
earthquake, or the sublime volcano, it gives us warn¬ 
ing of its presence. These are themselves gospel 
messengers. They say if we would but hear them— 


“ Prepare to meet thy God.” The intimations of 
science confirm those of Revelation: “ The heavens 
and the earth. . . . are kept in store, reserved 
unto the fire against the Day of Judgment and perdi¬ 
tion of ungodly men.” What was true of Sodom 
and Gomorrah—what was true of the earth we live 
on—is true of the human soul. It contains within 
itself the instruments of its own punishment. There 
is a fearful significance in the words of the Apostle: 
“ After thy hardness and impenitent heart treasureth 
up to thyself wrath against the day of wrath.” Men 
gather, with their own hands, the fuel to feed the 
flame that is not quenched ; they nurture in their 
own bosoms the worm that dieth not. In habits 
formed never to be broken; in words spoken, inca¬ 
pable of recall; in deeds committed, never to be 
forgotten ; in a life wasted and cast away that can 
never be made to bloom again, man prepares for 
himself his own deserved and inevitable chastisement. 
“Son, remember!”—to the soul who has spent its 
all in riotous living, there can be no more awful 
condemnation. 



* Copyright, Harper & Bros. 















HENRY WATTERSON. 


EDITOR OF THE ROUISVILLE “COURIER-JOURNAL. 


99 



various capacities, being a staff officer at one time and Chief of Scouts in General 
Joseph E. Johnston's army in 1864. After the war he returned to Nashville, but 
soon removed to Louisville, Kentucky, where he succeeded George D. Prentice as 
editor of the “ Journal.” In the following year he succeeded in uniting with the 
“ Journal,” the 44 Courier ” and the “ Times,” thus founding the “ Courier-Journal,” 
of which he has since been editor, and which, under his management, has come to 
be one of the foremost papers of the country. 

Mr. Watterson has taken a prominent part in politics, having been a member of 
every Presidential convention beginning with 1876. He was a personal friend and 
a resolute follower of Samuel J. Tilden. He has often appeared as a public speaker, 
particularly in political campaigns, and his judgment has had great weight in the 
councils of the Democratic party. Mr. Watterson is a pronounced “free-trader,” 
but has had no sympathy with the political movements under the leadership of 
Grover Cleveland. 

He has been a frequent contributor to periodicals and has edited one or two books, 
notably that entitled “ Oddities of Southern Life and Character.” The sustained 
vigor of his mind, the force of his personality and the wide-spread admiration for 
his abilities, make Mr. Watterson one of the leading men, not only of his party, but 
of the country. 


1 


EW men connected with modern journalism have wider influence than 
Henry Watterson. He was born in Washington, D. C., in 1850, 
and because of defective eyesight, was educated chiefly by a private 
tutor. Entering journalism, at first in Washington and later in 
Tennessee, he made his reputation as editor of the “ Republican 
Banner,” in Nashville. He served in the Confederate Army in 


-♦o*- 


THE NEW SOUTH. 

(FROM “SPEECH AT THE NATIONAL BANKERS’ CONVENTION, LOUISVILLE, KY., OCTOBER 11 , 1883 .”) 

wish me to talk to you about the South. The South ! 
The South ! It is no problem at all. I thank God that 
at last we can say with truth, it is simply a geographic 
expression. The whole story of the South may be 
summoned up in a sentence: She was rich, and she 
340 


T was not, however, to hear of banks and 
bankers and banking that you did me the 
honor to call me before you. I am told that 
to-day you are considering that problem which has so 
disturbed the politicians—the South—and that you 










































HENRY WATTERSON. 


^t her riches ; she was poor and in bondage ; she was 
set free, and she had to go to work ; she went to 
work, aud she is richer than ever before. You can 
see it was a groundhog case. The soil was here, the 
climate was here, but along with them was a curse, 
the curse of slavery. God passed the rod across the 
land and smote the people. Then, in His goodness 
and mercy, He waved the wand of enchantment, and 
lo, like a flower, His blessing burst forth ! Indeed, 
may the South say, as in the experience of men it is 
rare for any to say with perfect sincerity: 

“ Sweet are the uses of adversity.” 

The South never knew what independence meant 
until she was taught by subjection to subdue herself. 
She lived from hand to mouth. We had our debts 
and our niggers. Under the old system we paid our 
debts and walloped our niggers. Under the new we 
pay our niggers and wallop our debts. We have no 
longer any slaves, but we have no longer any debts, 
and can exclaim with the old darkey at the camp¬ 
meeting, who, whenever he got happy, went about 
shouting, “ Bless the Lord ! I’m gettin’ fatter an’ 
fatter! ” 

The truth is, that behind the great ruffle the South 
wore to its shirt, there lay concealed a superb man¬ 
hood. That this manhood was perverted, there is no 
doubt. That it wasted its energies upon trifles, is 
beyond dispute. That it took a pride in cultivating 
what it called “ the vices of a gentleman,” I am 
afraid must be admitted. But, at heart, it was 
sound', from that heart flowed honest Anglo-Saxon 
blood; and, when it had to lay aside its “store- 
clothes” and put on its homespun, it was equal to the 
emergency. And the women of the South took then 
place by the side of the men of the South, and, with 
spinning-wheel and ploughshare, together they made 
a stand against the wolf at the door. That was fif- 
teen years ago, and to-day there is not a reward 
offered in a single Southern State for wolf-skins. 
The fact is, the very wolves have got ashamed of 
themselves and gone to work. 

I beg you to believe that, in saying this, my pur¬ 
pose is neither to amuse nor mislead you. Although 
my words may seem to carry with them an unbusi 
ness-like levity, I assure you that my design is wholly 


^41 

business-like. You can see for yourselves what the 
South has done; what the South can do. If all this 
has been achieved without credit, and without your 
powerful aid—and I am now addressing myself to the 
North and East, which have feared to come South 
with their money—what might not be achieved if the 
vast aggregations of capital in the fiscal centres should 
add this land of w r ine, milk and honey to their fields 
of investment, and give us the same chief rates which 
are enjoyed by nearer, but not safer, borrowers ? The 
future of the South is act a whit less assured than 
the future of the West. Why should money which is 
freely loaned to Iowa and Illinois be refused to 
Alabama and Mississippi? I perfectly understand 
that business is business, and that capital is as unsec¬ 
tional as unsentimental. I am speaking from neither 
spirit. You have money to loan. We have a great 
country to develop. 

We need the money. You can make a profit off 
the development. When I say that w r e need money, 
I do not mean the sort of money once demanded by 
an old Georgia farmer, who, in the early days, came 
up to Milledgeville to see General Robert Toombs, at 
the time a director of the State Bank. “ Robert,” 
says he, “ the folks down our w r ay air in need of more 
money.” The profane Robert replied : “ Well, how 

in-are they going to get it?” “Why,” says 

the farmer, “ can’t you stomp it ? ” “ Suppose we do 

stomp it, how are we going to redeem it ? ” “ Ex¬ 

actly, Robert, exactly. That was just what I was 
coming to. You see the folks down our way air agin 
redemption.” We want good money, honest money, 
hard money, money that will redeem itself. 

We have given hostages to fortune and our works 
are before you. I know that the capital is prover¬ 
bially timid. But what are you afraid of? Is it our 
cotton that alarms you, or our corn, or our sugar ? 
Perhaps it is our coal and iron. Without you, in 
truth, many of these products must make slow pro¬ 
gress, whilst others will continue to lie hid in the 
bowels of the earth. With you the South will bloom 
as a garden and sparkle as a gold-mine ; for, whether 
you tickle her fertile plains with a straw or apply a 
more violent titillation to her fat mountain-sides, she 
is ready to laugh a harvest of untold riches. 












MURAT HALSTEAD. 


JOURNALIST AND POLITICIAN. 

HE editor of “The Cincinnati Commercial Gazette” may be ranked 
as one of the greatest living journalists. He has directed the policy 
first of “The Commercial” and then of “The Commercial Gazette” 
for a space of forty years, and has wielded an influence over the 
people of the vast region in which his paper circulates, and, indeed, 
upon the whole nation, hardly second to that of any other single 
man. Sometimes mistaken, but always honest, fearless and persistent, his work as 
a journalist may be cited as a model of excellence, and he may well be described 
as typical of the highest form of American manhood. He is now sixty-seven 
years of age, but he bears his years with such buoyancy and retains so fully his 
powers of mind and body that he distinguished himself in 1896 by going as special 
correspondent to the scene of the rebellion in Cuba, writing from that island, not 
only a daily letter to “The New York Journal” on the military and political situa¬ 
tion, but also a series of daily articles in “The Standard-Union,” describing the 
manners and customs of Havana, and relating incidents of life in the tropics in 
a delightfully characteristic manner. 

Mr. Halstead is a native of Butler County, Ohio, a locality which has produced 
its full share of the notable men of our time. As the inhabitants of the neighbor¬ 
hood were of Welsh extraction, with no one of Irish descent among them, the 
name, “Paddy’s Run,” borne by their Post Office, was a cause of great offence to 
tliem. A strong party, however, among whom was Mr. Halstead, made consistent 
opposition to every effort to change the name, but, though the struggle was long, 
the whimsical title which referred to an almost forgotten incident in General 
Wayne’s expedition had finally to he abandoned, and the fastidious inhabitants now 
have their mail addressed to “Shandon.” The Halstead family came from North 
Carolina at the time when so many of her noble sons bore practical testimony to 
their belief in free institutions by refusing to remain longer in a slave state, and 
making, in many cases, the greatest sacrifices in order to live on free soil in the 
Northwest Territory. 

Murat Halstead grew up on a farm and made his way through the Farmer’s 
College, at College Hill, Ohio, as so many men of his class have done, by alternating 
college work with teaching a district school. He went immediately from college 
into newspaper life, contributing a great variety of articles to the Cincinnati papers, 
and in 1853 joined the staff of “The Commercial.” He soon became part owner 
and controlling editor. The success of his paper has been continuous from that 













































MURAT HALSTEAD. 


343 


time, and the fact is due in greatest measure to the foresight, energy and skill 
of Mr. Halstead. He became prominent in a national sense during the presidential 
campaign ot 1856, and he was probably the only man who was present at all the 
national conventions of 1860, and one of the very few who foresaw the terrible 
conflict which was to follow. He had seen the hanging of John Brown, and 
reported it in vigorous fashion for his paper, and he was the Washington correspon¬ 
dent of “The Commercial” during the trying sessions of Congress which followed. 
He served as correspondent at the front during a part of the war, and “The Com¬ 
mercial” was no small factor in the national councils during that stormy time. 
His independence of mind is shown in his frequent criticism of the policy of the 
government. On one occasion he wrote a long letter to Secretary Stanton censuring 
in the strongest terms the measures which had been taken and outlining those 
which, in his opinion, would result in success. The document was afterwards filed 
away in the archives of the war department, bearing an inscription characteristic 
of the grim humor of the great war secretary: “How to Conduct the War— 
Halstead, M.” 

He went to Europe in 1870 with the purpose of joining the French armies, but 
not succeeding, managed to attach himself to those of the Germans. The experiences 
thus obtained not only furnished the basis of his newspaper correspondence at the 
time, but supplied the material for a number of delightfully instructive magazine 
articles. He has since visited Europe on several occasions, and in 1874 formed one 
of a distinguished company which made a journey to Iceland and took part in the 
celebration of the thousandth anniversary of its settlement. In 1872 Mr. Halstead 
again demonstrated his independence by breaking loose from the regular organiza¬ 
tion of the Republican party and taking part in the bolt which resulted in the 
nomination of Greeley for the Presidency. He was not long, however, in getting 
back into the ranks, but his unwillingness to submit to party discipline and his 
persistence in criticising men and measures when he considered that they were 
opposed to the public interest, has probably been the means of preventing him from 
election on at least one occasion to the United States Senate. When he was nominated 
by President Harrison to be Minister to Germany, it was undoubtedly the same 
cause which insured his rejection in the Senate. 

For many years the “ Cincinnati Gazette” and the “ Commercial” had continued 
an energetic rivalry. Their political attitude was very much the same, and there 
was everything to gain and little to lose by the consolidation of the two papers 
which occurred early in the eighties, with Mr. Halstead as editor-in-chief, and Mr. 
Richard Smith, of the “ Gazette,” as business Manager. Since 1884 Mr. Halstead 
has made his headquarters in Washington or New York; his editorial contributions 
going by telegraph to his paper and for several years past he has been editor of the 
Brooklyn “ Standard Union,” and has contributed very largely to other papers, his 
signed articles upon the money question in “The New York Herald ” being notable 
examples of his ability as a writer and of his grasp of the great questions of the 
time. The amount of work turned off by such a writer is prodigious. He says that 
he has undoubtedly written and published an average of more than a million words 
a year for forty years. If put in book form this would make in the aggregate some 

five hundred volumes of good size. 

2/ 


MURAT HALSTEAD. 


0 * 4 

Mr. Halstead was married in 1857 to Miss Mary Banks. They have four grown 
sons, all engaged in journalism; three younger ones, and three daughters. I heir 
family life has been all that such life should be, and the present generation of the 
Halsteads bears every promise of maintaining the high standard ol honest thought 
and persistent effort set by the florid faced man, whose large figure and massive 
head—hair and beard long since snow white—seem likely to be conspicuous in 
many presidential conventions yet to come, as they have been in almost every one 
for nearly half a century 

— -K >* 



TO THE YOUNG MAN AT THE DOOR. 

(from address on the maxims, markets, and missions of the press,” delivered before 

THE WISCONSIN PRESS ASSOCIATION, 1889 .) 

E need to guard against ways of exclusiveness 
—against the assumption that for some 
mysterious reason the press has rights that 
the people have not; that there are privileges of the 
press in which the masses and classes do not partici¬ 
pate. The claim of privilege is a serious error. One 
either gains or loses rights in a profession. We have 
the same authority to speak as editors that we have 
as citizens. If we use a longer “ pole to knock the 
persimmons,” it is because we have a larger constitu¬ 
ency for our conversational ability; that doesn’t affect 
rights. It simply increases responsibility. One can 
say of a meritorious man or enterprise, or of a rascally 
schemer or scheme, as an editor the same that he 
could as a citizen, a tax-payer, a lawyer, minister, 
farmer, or blacksmith. It conduces to the better 
understanding; of our business to know that we are 
like other folks, and not set apart, baptized, anointed, 
or otherwise sanctified, for an appointed and exclusive 
and unique service. 

It is in our line of occupation to buy white paper, 
impress ink upon it in such form as may be expressive 
of the news and our views, and agreeable to our 
friends or disagreeable to our foes, and sell the sheet 
when the paper becomes, by the inking thereof, that 
peculiar manufactured product, a newspaper, for a 
margin of profit. We are as gifted and good as 
anybody, so far as our natural rights are concerned, 
and are better or worse according to our behavior. 

It is our position to stand on the common ground 
with the people, and publish the news, and tell the 
truth about it as well as we can; and we shall, through 
influences certain in their operation, find the places 
wherein we belong. No one can escape the logic of 
his labor. 


Communications from young gentlemen in, or fresh 
from college, or active in other shops, who propose to 
go into journalism or newspaperdom, and want to 
know how to do it, are a common experience, for 
there is a popular fascination about our employment. 
There is nothing one could know—neither faculty to 
perform nor ability to endure—perfection of recollec¬ 
tion, thoroughness in history, capacity to apply the 
lessons of philosophy, comprehension of the law, or 
cultivated intuition of the Gospel—that would not be 
of servicegoing into newspaperdom. But it is beyond 
me to prescribe a course of study. It is easier, when 
you have the knack, to do than to tell. 

When the young man comes to say that he would 
be willing to undertake to run a newspaper—and we 
know that young man as soon as we see his anxious 
face at the door—and we sympathize with him, for 
we may remember to have been at the door instead 
of the desk, and willing to undertake the task of the 
gentleman who sat at the desk and asked what was 
wanted—when, perhaps, the youth at the door had in 
his pocket an essay on the “Mound Builders” that 
he believed was the news of the day—and we don’t 
like to speak unkindly to the young man. But there 
are so many of him. He is so numerous that he is 
monotonous, and it is not always fair to utter the 
commonplaces of encouragement. It is well to ask 
the young man, who is willing to come in and do 
things, what he has done (and often he hasn’t done any¬ 
thing but have his being). .What is it that he knows 
how to do better than anyone else can do it? If 
there be anything, the question settles itself, for one 
who knows how to do right well something that is to 
do, has a trade. The world is under his feet, and 
its hardness is firm footing. We must ask what the 











MURAT HALSTEAD. 


345 


young man wants to do? and he comes back with the 
awful vagueness that he is willing to do anything; 
and that always means nothing at all. It is the 
intensity of the current of electricity that makes the 
carbon incandescent and illuminating. The vital 
flame is the mystery that is immortal in the soul 
and in the universe. 

Who can tell the young man how to grasp the 
magic clew of the globe that spins with us ? There 
is no turnpike or railroad that leads into journalism. 
There are vacancies for didactic amateurs. Nobody 
is wanted. And yet we are always looking out for 
somebody, and once in awhile he comes. He does 
not ask for a place, but takes that which is his. Do 
not say to the young man there are no possibilities. 
There certainly are more than ever before. Young 


man, if you want to get into journalism, break in. 
Don't ask how. It is the finding of it out that will 
educate you to do the essential thing. The young 
man must enter the newspaper office by main strength 
and awkwardness, and make a place for himself. 

The machines upon which we impress the sheets 
we produce for the market—and we all know how 
costly they are in their infinite variety of improve¬ 
ments, for the earnings of the editor are swept away 
by the incessant, insatiable requirements of the press- 
maker—this facile mechanism is not more changeable 
than the press itself, in its larger sense—and the one 
thing needful, first and last, is man. With all the 
changes, the intelligence of the printer and the 
personal force of the editor are indispensable. 


















I 



WHITELAW REID. 


EDITOR OF THE NEW YORK “ TRIBUNE.” 



HERE is an old adage which declares “ fortune favors the brave.” 
This seems to be eminently true in the case of Whitelaw Reid, than 
whose life few in American literature are more inspiring to the 
ambitious but poor youth struggling upward for recognition among 
his fellow-men ; for it was by dint of hard work, heroic energy and 
unflagging perseverance that he has worked himself from the ranks 
of obscurity to one of the most prominent and honorable positions in modern 
journalism. 

Whitelaw Reid was born near Xenia, Ohio, October 27, 1837. The principle of 
industry was early inculcated in his life; and, besides doing his share in the work 
of the family, he found so much time for study that he graduated from the Miami 
University before he was twenty years of age and was actively engaged in journalism 
and politics before his majority,—making speeches in the Fremont campaign on 
the Republican side,—and was made editor of the “ Xenian News ” when only 
twenty-one years of age. When the Civil War began, he had attained such a repu¬ 
tation as a newspaper writer that the “ Cincinnati Gazette ” sent him to the field as 
its special correspondent. He made his headquarters at Washington, and his letters 
concerned not only tne war, but dwelt as well on the current politics. These 
attracted attention bv their thorough information and nungent style. He made 
excursions to the army wnerever there was prospect of active operation, was aide-de- 
camp to General Rosecrans and was present at the battles of Shiloh and Gettysburg. 
In 1863, he was elected Librarian of the House of Representatives at Washington, 
in which capacity he served until 1866. After the war, he engaged for one year in 
a cotton plantation in Louisiana and embodied the result of his observations in his 
first book entitled “ After the War ” (1867). 

One of the most important of all the State histories of the Civil War is Mr. 
Reid’s “ Ohio in the War,” which was issued in two volumes in 1868. It con¬ 
tained elaborate biographies of the chief Ohio participants of the army and a com¬ 
plete history of that State from 1861 to 1865. This work so attracted Horace 
Greeley, of the New York “ Tribune,” that he employed Mr. Reid as an editorial 
writer upon his paper, and the latter removed to New York City in 1868, and after 
Mr. Greeley’s death, in 1872, succeded as editor-in-chief and principal owner of the 
“ Tribune.” “Schools of Journalism” appeared in 1871, and “Scholars in Politics ” 
in 1873. 

34 6 










































WHITELAW REID. 


347 


The Legislature of New York in 1878 manifested the popular esteem in which 
Mr. Reid was held by electing him to be a regent of the State University for life. 
He was also offered by President Hayes the post of Minister to Germany and a 
similar appointment by President Garfield, both of which he declined, preferring 
rather to devote liis attention to his paper, which was one of the leading organs of the 
Republican Party in the United States. In 1879, Mr. Reid published a volume 
entitled “ Some Newspaper Tendencies,” and in 1881 appeared his book, “ Town 
Hall Suggestions.” During President Harrison’s administration, though he had 
already twice declined a foreign portfolio, he accepted, in 1889, the United States 
mission to France. At the Republican Convention which met at Chicago in 1892, 
lie was nominated for Vice-President of the United States and ran on the ticket 
with President Harrison. 

Mr. Reid has a magnificent home in the vicinity of New York, where he delights 
with his charming family, consisting of a wife and several children, to entertain his 
friends. He has traveled extensively in foreign countries and many of the celebri¬ 
ties of Europe have enjoyed the hospitality of his palatial home. In 1897, Whitelaw 
Reid was appointed a special envoy to represent the United States at the celebration 
of the Queen’s Jubilee. His wife attended him on this mission, and, in company 
with the United States Ambassador, Colonel John Hay, they were the recipients of 
many honors, among which was an invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Reid to visit the 
Queen on the afternoon of July 6, when they dined with Her Majesty, and, at her 
special request, slept that night in Windsor Castle. It may be of interest to state 
in this connection that, though Mr. Reid was the United States’ special envoy, he 
and his secretaries are said to have paid their own expenses. This statement, if it 
be true, notwithstanding the fact that Mr. Reid is a very wealthy man, evinces a 
liberality in the service of the government which should not pass unnoticed. 


■•o* 


“PICTURES OF A LOUISIANA PLANTATION.”* 

(FROM “ SOME SOUTHERN REMINISCENCES.”) 



and 


SPENT a year or two, after the close of 
the war in the Southern States, mostly on 
Louisiana and Alabama cotton-plantations; 
I shall try to revive some recollections of that 
experience. 

It was one of those perfect days which Louisianians 
get in February, instead of waiting, like poor Massa¬ 
chusetts Yankees, till June for them, when I crossed 
from Natchez to take possession of two or three river 
plantations on which I dreamed of making my fortune 
in a year. The road led directly down the levee. 
On the right rolled the Mississippi, still far below its 
banks, and giving no sign of the flood that a few 
months later was to drown our hopes. To the left 
stretched westward for a mile the unbroken expanse 


of cotton land, bounded by the dark fringe of cypress 
and the swamp. Through a drove of scrawny cattle 
and broken-down mules, pasturing on the rich Ber¬ 
muda grass along the levee, under the lazy care of 
the one-armed “stock-minder,” I made my way at 
last down a grassy lane to the broad-porched, many- 
windowed cottage propped up four or five feet from 
the damp soil by pillars of cypress, which the agent 
had called the “mansion.” It looked out pleasantly 
from the foliage of a grove of China and pecan trees, 
and was flanked, on the one hand by a beautifully 
cultivated vegetable garden, several acres in extent, 
and on the other by the “ quarters,”—a double row 
of cabins, each with two rooms and a projecting roof, 
covering an earthen-floored porch. A street, over- 


* Copyright, Wm. F. Gill & Co, 









348 


WHITELAW REID. 


grown with grass and weeds,ran from the “mansion” 
down between the rows of cabins, and stopped at the 
plantation blacksmith and carpenter shop. Behind 
each cabin was a little garden, jealously fenced off 
from all the rest with the roughest of cypress pickets, 
and its gate guarded by an enormous padlock. “ Nig¬ 
gers never trust one another about their gardens or 
hen-houses,” explained the overseer, who was making 
me acquainted with my new home. 

sp vp 

*4* ^p 


I rode out first, that perfect day, among the gang 
of a hundred and fifty negroes, who, on these planta¬ 
tions, were for the year to compromise between their 
respect and their newborn spirit of independence by 
calling me Mistali instead of Massa, there were no 
forebodings. Two “plough-gangs” and two “hoe- 
gangs ” were slowly measuring their length along the 
two-mile front. Among each rode its own negro 
driver, sometimes lounging in his saddle with one leg 
lodged on the pommel, sometimes shouting sharp. 



A COTTON FIELD IN LOUISIANA. 


abrupt orders to the delinquents. In each plough- 
gang were fifteen scrawny mules, with corn-lmsk 
collars, gunny-bags, and bedcord plough-lines. The 
Calhoun ploughs (the favorite implement through 
all that region, then, and doubtless still, retaining the 
name given it long before war was dreamed of) were 
rather lazily managed by the picked hands of the 
plantation. Among them were several women, who 
proved among the best laborers of the gang. A 
quarter of a mile ahead a picturesque sight presented 
itself, A great crowd of women and children, with a 


few aged or weakly men among them, were scattered 
along the old cotton-rows, chopping down weeds, 
gathering together the trash that covered the land, 
and firing little heaps of it, while through the clouds 
of smoke came an incessant chatter of the girls, and 
an occasional snatch of a camp-meeting hymn from 
the elders. “ Gib me some backey, please,” was the 
first salutation I received. They were dressed in a 
stout blue cottonade, the skirts drawn up to the 
knees, and reefed in a loose bunch at the waists; 
brogans of incredible sizes covered their feet, and 



















WHITELAW REID. 


349 


there was a little waste of money on the useless 
decency of stockings, but gay bandannas were wound 
iu profuse splendor around their heads. 

I he moment the sun disappeared every hoe was 
shouldered. Some took up army-blouses or stout 
mens overcoats, and drew them on; others gathered 
fragments of bark to kindle their evening fires, and 
balanced them nicely on their heads. In a moment 
the whole noisy crowd was filing across the plantation 
towards the quarters, joining the plough-gang, plead¬ 
ing for rides oh the mules, or flirting with the drivers, 
and looking as much like a troop flocking to a circus 
or rustic fair as a party of weary farm-laborers. At 
the house the drivers soon reported their grievances. 
“ Dem women done been squabblin’ ’mong dei’ selves 
dis a’ternoon. so I’s hardly git any wuck at all out of 
’em.” “ Fanny and Milly done got sick to-day ; an’ 

Sally heerd dat her husban’s mustered out ob de 
army, an’ she gone up to Natchez to fine him.” 
“ Fern sticklers ain’t jus’ wuf nuffin at all. ’Bout 
eight o’clock dey goes off to de quarters of deir babies, 
an’ I don’ nebber see nuffin mo’ ob ’em till ’bout 
elebben. Den de same way in de a’ternoon, till I’s 
sick ob de hull lot. De moody (Bermuda grass) 
mighty tough ’long heah, an’ I could’nt make dem 
women put in deir hoes to suit me nohow.” Presently 
men and women trooped up for the ticket represent¬ 
ing their day’s work. The women were soon busy 
preparing their supper of mess pork and early vege¬ 
tables ; while the plough-gang gathered about the 
overseer. “ He’d done promise dem a drink o’ wiskey, 
if dey’d finish dat cut, and dey’d done it.” The 
whiskey was soon forthcoming, well watered with a 
trifle of Cayenne pepper to conceal the lack of spirit, 
and a little tobacco soaked in it to preserve the color. 
The most drank it down at a gulp from the glass into 
which, for one after another, the overseer poured 
“ de lowance.” A few, as their turns came, passed 
up tin cups and went off with their treasure, chuck¬ 
ling about “ de splendid toddy we’s hab to-night.” 
Then came a little trade with the overseer at “ the 
store.” Some wanted a pound or two of sugar; 
others, a paper of needles or a bar of soap ; many of 
the young men, “ two bits’ wuf” of candy or a brass 
ring. In an hour trade was over, and the quarters 
were as silent as a churchyard. But, next morning, 
at four o’clock, I was aroused by the shrill “ driber’s 
horn.” Two hours later it was blown again, and, 


looking from my window just as the first rays of 
light came level across the field, I saw the women 
filing out, with their hoes, and the ploughmen 
leisurely sauntering down to the stables, each with 
corn-husk collar and bedcord plough-lines in his 
hands. The passion for whiskey among the negroes 
seemed universal. I never saw a man, woman or 
child, reckless young scapegrace or sanctimonious old 
preacher, among them, who would refuse it; and 
the most had no hesitancy in begging it whenever 
they could. Many of them spent half their earnings 
buying whiskey. That sold on any of the plantations 
I ever visited or heard of was always watered down 
at least one-fourth. Perhaps it was owing to this 
fact, though it seemed rather an evidence of unex¬ 
pected powers of self-restraint, that so few were to be 

seen intoxicated. 

» 

During the two or three years in which I spent 
most of my time among them, seeing scores and 
sometimes hundreds in a day, I do not remember 
seeing more than one man absolutely drunk. He 
had bought a quart of whiskey, one Saturday night, 
at a low liquor shop in Natchez. Next morning 
early he attacked it, and in about an hour the 
whiskey and lie were used up together. Hearing 
an unusual noise in the quarters, I walked down that 
way and found the plough-driver and the overseer 
both trying to quiet Horace. He was unable to 
stand alone, but he contrived to do a vast deal of 
shouting. As I approached, the driver said, “ Horace, 
don’t make so much noise ; don’t you see Mr. R. ?” 
He looked around as if surprised at learning it. 

“ Boss, is dat you ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Boss, I’s drunk ; boss, I’s ’shamed o’- myself! 
but I’s drunk ! I ’sarve good w’ipping. Boss,— 
boss, s-s-slap me in de face, boss.” 

I was not much disposed to administer the “ slap¬ 
ping;” but Horace kept repeating, with a drunken 
man’s persistency, “ Slap me in de face, boss; please, 
boss.” Finally I did give him a ringing cuff on the 
ear. Horace jerked off his cap, and ducked down his 
head with great respect, saying, “ T’ank you, boss.” 
Then, grinning his maudlin smile, he threw open his 
arms as if to embrace me, and exclaimed, “ Now kiss 
me, boss!” Next morning Horace was at work with 
the rest, and though he bought many quarts of whis¬ 
key afterwards, I never saw him drunk again. 






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ALBERT SHAW. 

EDITOR OF THE “ REVIEW OF REVIEWS.” 

seems, sometimes, that the influence of the editor has departed, and 
that notwithstanding the survival of a few men like Halstead and 
Reid, who helped to make the papers which moulded public opinion 
thirty years ago, the newspaper fills no such place as it did in 
the day of their prime, but a different place, not a lower or a 
less important one. Among the men who through the medium of 
the press are doing most to promote the spread of intelligence, and particularly to 
further the cause of good government and to elevate the civic life of our country, 
Albert Shaw fills a prominent place. 

Hr. Shaw is a young man of Western birth, tall and slender in figure, with a 
keen eye, a quick and rather nervous manner, and features expressing in an unusual 
degree intelligence, energy, and character. Born in Ohio, the central West, Hr. 
Shaw represents a catholicity of feeling and knowledge which very few Americans 
possess. He knows the whole country. He is not distinctly an Eastern man, a 
Western man, or a man of the Pacific slope: he is a man of America. He knows 
the characteristics of each section, its strength and its weakness. With New Eng¬ 
land blood in his veins, but with the energizing influences of the West about his 
boyhood, Hr. Shaw graduated at Iowa College, the oldest institution of its class west 
of the Mississippi. Huring his college life the future journalist and writer devoted 
a great deal of time to the study of literature and of literary style, disclosing very 
early two qualities which are pre-eminently characteristic of him to-day, lucidity 
and directness. After graduation Hr. Shaw began his professional life as editor of 
“The Grinnell Herald,” a position which enabled him to master all the mechanical 
and routine work of journalism. 

His aims were not the aims of the ordinary journalist. He saw with unusual 
clearness the possibilities of his profession, and he saw also that he needed a wider 
educational basis. His interest in social and political topics was the interest of a 
man of philosophic mind, eager to learn the principles and not simply to record the 
varying aspects from day to day. In order the better to secure the equipment 
of which he felt the need, he entered the Johns Hopkins University and took a 
post-graduate course. It was during his residence in Baltimore that he met Pro¬ 
fessor Bryce, who recognized his rare ability and intelligence, and who used his un¬ 
usually large knowledge of social and political conditions in the country. While car¬ 
rying on his special studies at the Johns Hopkins University, Hr. Shaw joined the 

350 













































ALBERT SHAW. 


35t 


editorial staff of the Minneapolis daily “Tribune.” After receiving the degree of 
Ph. I). in 1884, he removed permanently to Minneapolis, and took his place at the 
head of the stall' of the “Tribune.” His work almost at once attracted attention. 
Its breadth, its thoroughness, its candor, and its ability were of a kind which made 
themselves recognized on the instant. Four years later Dr. Shaw spent a year and 
a halt studying social and political conditions in Europe, traveling extensively and 
devoting much time to the examination of the condition of municipalities. It was 
this study which has borne fruit in the two volumes on Municipal Government which 
have come from the press of the Century Company, and which have given Dr. Shaw 
the first rank as an authority on these matters. When the “Review of Reviews” 
was established in this country in 1891, Dr. Shaw became its editor, and his success 
in the management of this very important periodical has justified the earlier expecta¬ 
tions entertained by his friends, for he has given the “Review of Reviews” a 
commanding position. He is one of the very few journalists in this country who 
treat their work from the professional standpoint, who are thoroughly equipped for 
it, and who regard themselves as standing in a responsible relation to a great and 
intelligent public. Dr. Shaw’s presentation of news is pre-eminently full, candid, 
and unpartisan; his discussion of principles is broad-minded, rational, and persua¬ 
sive. He is entirely free from the short-sighted partisanship of the great majority 
of newspaper editors, and he appreciates to the full the power of intelligent, judicial 
statement. His opinions, for this reason, carry great weight, and it is not too much 
to say that he has not his superior in the field of American journalism. 


-•o* 


RECENT DEVELOPMENT OF THE WEST. 



ET us imagine a man from the East who has 
visited the Northwestern States and Ter¬ 
ritories at some time between the years 
1870 and 1875, and who retains a strong impression 
of what he saw, but who has not been west of Chicago 
since that time, until, in the World’s Fair year he 
determines upon a new exploration of Iowa, Nebraska, 
the Dakotas, Minnesota and Wisconsin. However 


well informed he had tried to keep himself through 
written descriptions and statistical records of Western 
progress, he would see what nothing but the evidence 
of his own eyes could have made him believe to be 
possible. Iowa in 1870 was already producing a large 
crop of cereals, and was inhabited by a thriving, 
though very new, farming population. But the aspect 
of the country was bare and uninviting, except in the 
vicinity of the older communities on the Mississippi 
River. As one advanced across the State the farm¬ 
houses were very small, and looked like isolated dry- 
goods boxes j there were few well-built barns or farm 
buildings ; and the struggling young cottonwood and 


soft-maple saplings planted in close groves about the 
tiny houses were so slight an obstruction to the sweep 
of vision across the open prairie that they only seemed 
to emphasize the monotonous stretches of fertile, but 
uninteresting plain. Now the landscape is wholly 
transformed. A railroad ride in June through the 
best parts of Iowa reminds one of a ride through 
some of the pleasantest farming districts of England. 
The primitive u claim shanties ” of thirty years ago 
have given place to commodious farm-houses flanked 
by great barns and hay-ricks, and the well-appointed 
structures of a prosperous agriculture. In the rich, 
deep meadows herds of fine-blooded cattle are grazing. 
What was once a blank, dreary landscape is now 
garden-like and inviting. The poor little saplings of 
the earlier days, which seemed to be apologizing to 
the robust corn-stalks in the neighboring fields, have 
grown on that deep soil into great, spreading trees. 
One can easily imagine, as he looks oft in every direc¬ 
tion and notes a wooded horizon, that he is—as in 
Ohio, Indiana, or Kentucky—in a farming region 












35^ 


ALBERT SHAW. 


which has been cleared out of primeval forests. There 
are many towns I might mention which twenty-five 
years ago, with their new, wooden shanties scattered 
over the bare face of the prairie, seemed the hottest 
place on earth as the summer sun beat upon their 
unshaded streets and roofs, and seemed the coldest 
places on earth when the fierce blizzards of winter 
swept unchecked across the prairie expanses. To-day 
the density of shade in those towns is deemed of posi¬ 
tive detriment to health, and for several years past 
there has been a systematic thinning out and trim¬ 
ming up of the great, clustering elms. Trees of from 
six to ten feet in girth are found everywhere by the 
hundreds of thousands. Each farm-house is sheltered 
from winter winds by its own dense groves. Many 
of the farmers are able from the surplus growth of 
wood upon their estates to provide themselves with a 
large and regular supply of fuel. If I have dwelt at 
some length upon this picture of the transformation 
of the bleak, grain-producing Iowa prairies of thirty 
years ago into the dairy and live-stock farms of to¬ 
day, with their fragrant meadows and ample groves, 
it is because the picture is one which reveals so much 
as to the nature and meaning of Northwestern 
progress. 

The tendency to rely upon united public action is 
illustrated in the growth of Northwestern educational 
systems. The universities of these commonwealths 
are State universities. Professional education is under 
the State auspices and control. The normal schools 
and the agricultural schools belong to the State. The 
public high school provides intermediate instruction. 
The common district school, supported jointly by local 
taxation and State subvention, gives elementary edu¬ 
cation to the children of all classes. As the towns 
grow the tendency to graft manual and technical 
courses upon the ordinary public school curriculum is 
unmistakably strong. The Northwest, more than any 
other part of the country, is disposed to make every 
kind of education a public function. 

Radicalism has flourished in the homogeneous agri¬ 
cultural society of the Northwest. In the anti- 
monopoly conflict there seemed to have survived some 
of the intensity of feeling that characterized the anti- 
slavery movement; and a tinge of this fanatical quality 


has always been apparent in the Western and North¬ 
western monetary heresies. But it is in the temper¬ 
ance movement that this sweep of radical impulse has 
been most irresistible. It was natural that the move¬ 
ment should become political and take the form of an 
agitation for prohibition. The history of prohibition 
in Iowa, Kansas and the Dakotas, and of temperance 
legislation in Minnesota and Nebraska, reveals—even 
better perhaps than the history of the anti-monopoly 
movement—the radicalism, homogeneity, and powerful 
socializing tendencies of the Northwestern people. 
Between these different agitations there has been in 
reality no slight degree of relationship ; at least their 
origin is to be traced to the same general condition 
of society. 

The extent to which a modern community resorts 
to State action depends in no small measure upon the 
accumulation of private resources. Public or organ¬ 
ized initiative will be relatively strongest where the 
impulse to progress is positive but the ability of indi¬ 
viduals is small. There are few rich men in the 
Northwest. Iowa, great as is the Hawkeye State, 
has no large city and no large fortunes. Of Kansas 
the same thing may be said. The Dakotas have no 
rich men and no cities. Minnesota has Minneapolis 
and St. Paul, and Nebraska has Omaha ; but other¬ 
wise these two States are farming communities, with¬ 
out large cities or concentrated private capital. 
Accordingly the recourse to public action is compara¬ 
tively easy. South Dakota farmers desire to guard 
against drought by opening artesian wells for irriga¬ 
tion. They resort to State legislation and the sale of 
county bonds. North Dakota wheat growers are un¬ 
fortunate in the failure of crops. They secure seed- 
wheat through State action and their county govern¬ 
ments. A similarity of condition fosters associated 
action, and facilitates the progress of popular move¬ 
ments. 

In such a society the spirit of action is intense. If 
there are few philosophers, there is remarkable diffu¬ 
sion of popular knowledge and elementary education. 
The dry atmosphere and the cold winters are nerve- 
stimulants, and life seems to have a higher tension 
and velocity than in other parts of the country. 






JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 


THE POPULAR NOVELIST AND CONTRIBUTOR. 



LILIAN HAWTHORNE has inherited much of his father’s literary 
ability. His recent celebrity has been largely due to his success in 
portraying to the readers of popular magazines facts of world-wide 
interest like the famine in India, but to the special power of vivid 
statement which belongs to the newspaper reporter, he joins the 
imaginative power which enables him to recognize the materials of 
romance and the gift of clear and graceful expression. He is the son of Nathaniel 
Hawthorne, and was born in Boston in 1846. He traveled abroad with his parents, 
returning and entering Harvard in 1863. His college life seems to have been ; 
devoted more to athletics than to serious learning. He took up the study of civil - 
engineering and went to Dresden to carry it on, but the Franco-Prussian war 
breaking out while he was visiting at home, he found employment as an engineer 
under General George B. McClellan in the department of docks in New York. He 
began soon after to write stories and sketches for the magazines, and losing his posi¬ 
tion in 1872, he determined to devote himself to literature. He now went abroad, 
living for several years, first in England and then in Dresden, and again in Eng¬ 
land, where he remained until 1881, and then after a short stay in Ireland, returned 
to New York. A number of his stories were published while he was abroad. Of 
these the most important were “ Bressant ” and “ Idolatry.” For two years he was 
connected with the London “ Spectator,” and he contributed to the “Contemporary 
Review ” a series of sketches called “ Saxon Studies,” which were afterwards pub¬ 
lished in book form. The novel “Garth” followed and collections of stories and 
novelettes entitled “The Laughing Mill;” “Archibald Malmaison;” “Ellice 
Quentin;” “Prince Saroni’s Wife;” and the “Yellow Cap” fairy stories. These 
were all published abroad, but a part of them were afterward reprinted in America. 
Later he published “ Sebastian Strome; ” “ Fortune’s Fool,” and in 1884 “Dust” 
and “ Noble Blood.” On his return to America he edited his father’s posthumous 
romance “ Dr. Grimshaw’s Secret,” and prepared the biography of his father and 
mother. Since that time he has contributed a large number of stories and sketches 
to magazines. His most recent work has been an expedition to India to write for 
American periodicals an account of the famine in that country. One of our extracts 
is taken from this account and will very adequately illustrate his power of telling 
things so that his readers can see them with his eyes. Mr. Hawthrone’s activity does 
23 P. H. 353 

























354 


JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 


not abate and his friends and admirers expect from him even better work than he 
has yet done. 

- »o«- 


THE WAYSIDE AND THE WAR * 


(FROM “ NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.”) 


T was a hot day towards the close of June, 
1860, when Hawthorne alighted from a 
train at Concord station, and drove up in 
the railway wagon to the Wayside. The fields looked 
brown, the trees were dusty, and the sun white and 
brilliant. At certain seasons in Concord the heat 
stagnates and simmers, until it seems as if nothing 
but a grasshopper could live. The water in the river 
is so warm that to bathe in it is merely to exchange 
one kind of heat for another. The very shadow of 
the trees is torrid ; and I have known the thermome¬ 
ter to touch 112° in the shade. No breeze stirs 
throughout the long sultry day; and the feverish 
nights bring mosquitoes, but no relief. To come from 
the salt freshness of the Atlantic into this living oven 
is a startling change, especially when one has his 
memory full of cool, green England. Such was 
America’s first greeting to Hawthorne, on his return 
from a seven years’ absence; it was to this that he 
had looked forward so lovingly and so long. As he 
passed one little wooden house after another, with 
their white clap boards and their green blinds, per¬ 
haps he found his thoughts not quite so cloudless as 
the sky. It is dangerous to have a home ; too much 
is required of it. 



The Wayside, however, was not white, it was painted 
a dingy butf color. The larches and Norway pines, 
several hundred of which had been sent out from 
England, were planted along the paths, and were for 
the most part doing well. The well-remembered hill¬ 
side, with its rude terraces, shadowed by apple-trees, 
and its summit green with pines, rose behind the 
house ; and in front, on the other side of the highway, 
extended a broad meadow of seven acres, bounded by 
a brook, above which hung drooping willows. It 
was, upon the whole, as pleasant a place as any in the 
village, and much might be done to enhance its 
beauty. It had been occupied, during our absence, 
by a brother of Mrs. Hawthorne; and the house 
itself was in excellent order, and looked just the same 
as in our last memory of it. A good many altera¬ 
tions have been made since then ; another story was 
added to the western wing, the tower was built up 
behind, and two other rooms were put on in the rear. 
These changes, together with some modifications 
about the place, such as opening up of paths, the 
cutting down of some trees, and the planting of 
others, were among the last things that engaged 
Hawthorne’s attention in this life. 


o 


FIRST MONTHS IN ENGLAND* 


n 



FROM “ NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE AND HIS WIFE.' 

E are told, truly enough, that goodness does and unreasonable accidents bewilders the mind, and 


not always command good fortune in this 
world, that just hopes are often deferred 
until it is too late to enjoy their realization, that fame 
and honor only discover a man after he has ceased 
to value them ; and a large and respectable portion 
of modern fiction is occupied in impressing these 
sober lessons upon us. It is pleasant, nevertheless, 
to believe that sometimes fate condescends not to be 
so unmitigable, and that a cloudy and gusty morning 
does occasionally brighten into a sunny and genial 
afternoon. Too long a course of apparently perverse 


the few and fleeting gleams of compensation seem a 
mockery. One source of the perennial charm of 
Goldsmith's “ Vicar of Wakefield ” is, I think, that 
in it the dividing line between the good and the bad 
fortune is so distinctly drawn. Just when a man 
has done his utmost, and all seems lost, Providence 
steps in, brings aid from the most unexpected quarter, 
and kindles everything into brighter and ever brigh¬ 
ter prosperity. The action and reaction are positive 
and complete, and we arise refreshed and comforted 
from the experience. 


* Copyright, Ticknor & Co. 























JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 


355 


It was somewhat thus with Hawthorne, though the 
picture of his career is to be painted in a lower and 
more delicate tone than that of Goldsmith’s brilliant 
little canvas. TJp to the time of publication of “ The 
Scarlet Letter,” his external circumstances had cer- 
| tainly been growing more and more unpromising ; 
though, on the other hand, his inner domestic life had 
been full of the most vital and tender satisfactions. 
But the date of his first popular success in literature 
| also marks the commencement of a worldly prosperity 
| which, though never by any means splendid (as we 
shall presently see), at any rate sufficed to allay the 
immediate anxiety about to-morrow’s bread-and- 
butter, from which he had not hitherto been free. 
The three American novels were written and pub¬ 
lished in rapid succession, and were reprinted in Eng¬ 
land, the first two being pirated; but for the last, 
“ The Blithedale Romance,” two hundred pounds were 


obtained from Messrs. Chapman and Ilall for ad¬ 
vance sheets. There is every reason to believe that 
during the ensuing years other romances would have 
been written; and perhaps they would have been as 
good as, or better than, those that went before. But 
it is vain to speculate as to what might have been. 
What actually happened was that Hawthorne was 
appointed United States Consul to Liverpool, and for 
six years to come his literary exercises were confined 
to his consular despatches and to six or eight volumes 
of his English, French and Italian Journals. It was 
a long abstinence; possibly it was a beneficent one. 
The production of such books as “ The Scarlet 
Letter” and “The House of Seven Gables” cannot 
go on indefinitely ; though they seem to be easily 
written when they are written, they represent a great 
deal of the writer’s spiritual existence. At all events, 
it is better to write too little than too much. 


-♦O*- 


THE HORRORS OF THE PLAGUE IN INDIA. 

(FROM THE “ COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE.”) 



MET the local inspectors at the railway 
station leading a horse which they had 
kindly provided for me. We made a tour 
of half a dozen villages, alighting to investigate any¬ 
thing that appeared suspicious. The first and largest 
I of the villages rambles along on either side of a street 
I scarcely wider than an ordinary footpath. The 
I houses were mud huts, whitewashed, or built of a 
j kind of rubble, with the roofs of loose tiles common 
1 in India. Cocoa palms were numerous all over the 
k region, and there were solid groves of them outside 
i the settlements, coming down to the water’s edge. 
| The inhabitants for the most part professed the 
f Roman Catholic faith ; crosses stood at every meeting 
I of the ways, and priests in black gowns with wide- 
| brimmed black hats stole past us occasionally. Of 
I native inhabitants, however, we saw very few; those 
I who were not in the graveyards had locked up their 
i houses and fled the town. All the houses in which 
I death or sickness had occurred had been already 
I visited by the inspectors, emptied of their contents 
j and disinfected. Those which were still occupied 
I were kept under strict supervision. One which had 
j been occupied the day before was now found to be 
I shut. The inspectors called up a native and ques¬ 


tioned him. From his replies it appeared that there 
had been symptoms of the disease. We dismounted 
and made an examination. Every door and window 
was fastened, but by forcing open a blind we were 
able to see the interior. It was empty of life and of 
most of the movable furniture ; but the floor of dried 
mud was strewn with the dead carcasses of rats. 
Undoubtedly the plague had been here. The house 
was marked for destruction, and we proceeded. * * 

Low, flat ledges of rock extended into the sea. A 
group of creatures in loin-cloths and red turbans were 
squatting or moving about between two or three 
heaps of burning timber. These were made of stout 
logs piled across one another to a height of about 
four feet. Half-way in the pile was placed a human 
body; it was not entirely covered by the wood, but a 
leg projected here, an arm there. The flames blazed 
up fiercely, their flickering red tongues contrasting 
with the pale blue of the calm sea beyond. The 
smoke arose thick and unctuous, and, fortunately, 
was carried seaward. One of the pyres had burnt 
down to white ashes, and nothing recognizable as 
human remained. The people whose bodies were 
here burned had died in the segregation huts the 
night before. 

















RICHARD HARDING DAVIS. 



ICHARD HARDING DAVIS has shown a marvelous skill in seeing 
the world, in travel, and of describing it as he sees it. He is not i i 
profound student of the mystery of the human mind, but he posj|£ 
sesses in high degree and in rare quality an instinct of selection, I f 
clear sense of an artistic situation in a group of more or less ordinary 
circumstances and a gift in interesting description. He is, in short)! 


a very clever newspaper reporter who has transferred his field of service from tin 
region of the actual to the realm of the imaginary. His reputation, however, is 
about equally divided between his works of description and travel and his stork' 1 
of a more imaginative order, though in both classes of writings, he is above every] 
thing else a describer of what he lias seen. 

He Avas born in Philadelphia in 1864, the son of L. Clark Davis, an editor of 
reputation, and Rebecca Harding Davis, the author of many good stories, so that tin 1 
child had a literary inheritance and an hereditary bent for letters. He studied foij j 
three years in Lehigh University and one year in Johns Hopkins, after which In 
began his interesting career as a journalist, serving successively “The Record,’j| 
“Press,” and “Telegraph” of Philadelphia. On his return from a European tripi 
he became connected with the New York “Evening Sun,” for which he wrote thei 
famous series of “Van Bibber Sketches.” | 

The story, however, which gave him his first real fame was “Galleglier,” tliej 
scene of which is laid in Philadelphia, though, as is true of all his stories, locality 
plays but little part in his tales, modes of life and not scenery being the mair 
feature. 

He describes the happy-go-lucky life of the young club man, adventures i 
saloons, and scenes among burglars with remarkable realism, for as reporter M 
lived for a time among the “reprobates,” in disguise, to make a careful study ofl 
their manner of life. Again when he describes “The West from a Car Window/'! 
he is giving scenes which he saAv and types of life which he closely observed. His 
books always have the distinctive mark of spirit; they are full of life and activity, 
everything moves on and something “happens.” This is as true of his books of 
travel as of his stories. He has traveled extensively, and he has given descriptions 
of most of his journeys. 

Beside “The West from a Car Window” he has written, with the same reportoriaV 
skill and fidelity to observed facts, a book of descriptions of life and manners in thei 
East, with scenes and incidents at Gibraltar and Tangiers, in Cairo, Athens anc 
Constantinople. 

35^ 


































RICHARD HARDING DAVIS. 


357 


f. He .- U v aI f 0 Py°;. lu< r ed a book of travels in England, which touches rather the sur¬ 
face oi English life than the deeper traits of character which Emerson has so faith- 
luly described. -Davis writes as reporter of what is easily observed, while the 
other writes as philosopher. His latest collection of stories which shows his story¬ 
telling faculties at their best is called “The Exiles and Other Stories.” His most 
recent service as a journalist was as correspondent of “The London Times,” with 
the Oreek forces during tlieir recent humiliating conflict with the Turks. The 

i selection . given below will illustrate his vigorous style and the vivid character of 
ins descriptions. 


-*<>•- 


THE GREEK DEFENCE OF VELESTINO. 

(FROM THE “ LONDON TIMES.”) 


ei 

10 


HERE is a round hill to the north of the 
town, standing quite alone. It has a per¬ 
fectly flat top, and its proportions are 
Kfi exactly those of a giant bucket set upside down. We 
|J found the upper end of this bucket crowded with six 
rj mountain guns [there was one other correspondent 
ijj with Mr. Davis at the time], and the battery was 
j protesting violently. When it had uttered its protest 
the guns would throw themselves into the air, and 
would turn a complete somersault, as though with 
J delight at the mischief they had done, or would whirl 
| themselves upon one wheel while the other spun rap¬ 
idly in the air. Lieutenant Ambroise Frantzis was 
in command of the battery. It was he who had re¬ 
pulsed a Turkish cavalry charge of a few days before 
with this same battery, and he was as polite and calm 
and pleased with his excitable little guns as though they 
weighed a hundred tons each, and could send a shell 
nine miles instead of a scant three thousand yards. 

“ From this hill there was nothing to be seen of the 
Turks but pufls of smoke in the plain, so we slid 
down its steep side and clambered up the ridges in 
front of us, where long rows of infantry were outlined 
against the sky. ... A bare-headed peasant boy, 
in dirty white petticoats, who seemed to consider the 
engagement in the light of an entertainment, came 
dancing down the hill to show us the foot-paths that 
led up the different ridges. He was one of the vil¬ 
lagers who had not run away or who was not farther 
up the valley, taking pot-shots at the hated Turks 
from behind rocks. He talked and laughed as he ran 
ahead of us, with many gestures, and imitated mock¬ 
ingly the sound of the bullets, and warned us with 
grave solicitude to be careful, as though he was in no 


possible danger himself. I saw him a great many 
times during the day, guiding company after company 
through the gulleys, and showing them how to ad¬ 
vance protected by the slope of the hills—a self-con¬ 
stituted scout—and with much the manner of a landed 
proprietor escorting visitors over his estate. And 
whenever a shell struck near him, he would run and 
retrieve the pieces, and lay them triumphantly at the 
feet of the officers, like a little fox-terrier that has 
scampered after a stick and brought it to his master’s 
feet. 

“The men in the first trench—which was the only 
one which gave us a clear view of the Turkish forces 
—received us with cheerful nods and scraped out a 
place beside them, and covered the moist earth with 
their blankets. They exhibited a sort of childish 
pride and satisfaction at being under fire; and so far 
from showing the nervousness and shattered morale 
which had been prophesied for them after the rout at 
Larissa, they appeared on the contrary more than con¬ 
tent. As the day wore on, they became even lan¬ 
guidly bored with it all, and some sang in a low croon¬ 
ing tone, and others, in spite of the incessant rush of 
the shells, dozed in the full glare of the sun, and still 
others lay humned and crouched against the earth¬ 
works when the projectiles tore up the earth on the 
hill behind us. But when the order came to fire, 
they would scramble to their knees with alacrity, and 
many of them would continue firing on their own 
account, long after the whistle had sounded to cease 
firing. Some of the officers walked up and down, and 
directed the men in the trenches at their feet with the 
air of judges or time-keepers at an athletic meeting, 
who were observing a tug-of-war. Others exposed 
















RICHARD HARDING DAVIS. 


358 


themselves in what looked like a spirit of braggadocio, 
for they moved with a swagger and called upon the 
men to notice how brave they were. Other officers 
rose only when it was necessary to observe some fresh 
movement upon the part of the enemy, and they did 
this without the least haste and simply as a part of 
their work, and regarded the bullets that instantly 
beset them as little as if they were so many flies. 

“ A Turkish soldier dragging a mule loaded with 
ammunition had appeared a quarter of a mile below 
us, and at sight of him the soldiers at once recognized 
that there was something tangible, something that 
could show some sign if they hit it. The white smoke 
they had aimed at before had floated away, but at the 
sight of this individual soldier the entire line ceased 
firing at the enemy’s trenches, and opened on the un¬ 
happy Turk and his mule, and as the dust spurted up 
at points nearer and nearer to where he stood, their 
excitement increased in proportion, until, when he 
gave the mule a kick and ran for his life, there was a 
triumphant shout all along the line, as though they had 
repulsed a regiment. That one man and his load of 
ammunition had for a few minutes represented to 
them the entire Turkish army. 

“As the Turks suddenly appeared below us, clamber¬ 
ing out of a long gully, it was as though they had 
sprung from the earth. On the moment the smiling 
landscape changed like a scene at a theatre, and hun¬ 


dreds of men rose from what had apparently been 
deserted hilltops, and stood outlined in silhoutte against 
the sunset, waves of smoke ran from crest to crest, 
spitting flashes of red flame, and men’s voices shrieked 
and shouted, and the Turkish shells raced each other 
so fiercely that they beat out the air until it groaned. 
It had come up so suddenly that it was like two dogs 
springing at each other’s throats, and, in a greater 
degree, it had something of the sound of two wild 
animals struggling for life. Volley answered volley as 
though with personal hate—one crashing in upon (he 
roll of the other, or beating it out of recognition with 
the bursting roar of heavy cannon ; and to those who 
could do nothing but lie face downwards and listen to 
it, it seemed as though they had been caught in a 
burning building, and that the walls and roof were 
falling in on them. I do not know how long it lasted 
—probably not more than five minutes, although it 
seemed much longer than that—but finally the death- 
grip seemed to relax, the volleys came brokenly, like 
a man panting for breath, the bullets ceased to sound 
with the hiss of escaping steam, and rustled aindessly 
by, and from hilltop to hilltop the officers’ whistles 
sounded as though a sportsman were calling off his 
dogs. The Turks had been driven back, and for the 
fourth day the Greeks had held Velestino successf'dly 
against them.” 









Miscellaneous Masterpieces, 

FROM VARIOUS AMERICAN AND ANONYMOUS AUTHORS, 

CHOSEN WITH A VIEW TO THEIR GENERAL POPULARITY OR ADAPTATION 

FOR READING AND RECITATION. 


HOME, SWEET HOME. 

John Howard Payne, the author of the following 
beautiful and perhaps most widely known song in 
the world, was born in New York, on the ninth of 
June, 1792. His remarkable career as an actor and 
dramatist belongs to the history of the stage. As a 
poet he will be known only by a single song. He 
died at Tunis, in 1852, where he was for some time 
Consul for the United States. 


ID pleasures and palaces though we may 
roam, 

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like 
home! 

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, 
Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with 
elsewhere. 

Home ! home, sweet home! 

There’s no place like home ! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain, 

Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ; 

The birds singing gayly that come at my call: 

Give me these, and the peace of mind, dearer than 
all. 

Home! sweet, sweet home! 

There’s no place like home. 


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 

Francis Scott Key, the author of the following 
patriotic poem, was born in Frederick County, Mary¬ 
land, August 1, 1779. He was a very able and eloquent 
lawyer, and one of the most respectable gentlemen 
whose lives have ever adorned American society. He 
was a man of much literary cultivation and taste, and 
his religious poems are not without merit. He died very 
suddenly at Baltimore on January 11, 1843. In 1814, 
when the British fleet was at the mouth of the Po¬ 
tomac River, and intended to attack Baltimore, Mr. 
Key and Mr. Skinner were sent in a vessel with a 
flag of truce to obtain the release of some prisoners 
the English had taken in their expedition against 
Washington. They did not succeed, and were told 
that they would be detained till after the attack had 
been made on Baltimore. Accordingly, they w r ent 
in their own vessel, strongly guarded, with the Brit¬ 
ish fleet, and when they came within sight of Fori 
McHenry, a short distance below the city, they could 
see the American flag flying on the ramparts. As 
the day closed in, the bombardment of the fort com¬ 
menced, and Mr. Key and Mr. Skinner remained on 
deck all night, watching with deep anxiety every 
shell that was fired. While the bombardment con- 
tinued, it was sufficient proof that the fort had not 
surrendered. It suddenly ceased some time before 
day; but as they had no communication with any of 
the enemy’s ships, they did not know whether the 
fort had surrendered and their homes and friends 
were in danger, or the attack upon it had been aban¬ 
doned. They paced the deck the rest of the night in 



♦ This includes full-page illustrations not previously numbered. 

39 1 

























392 


MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


painful suspense, watching with intense anxiety for 
the return of day. At length the light came, and 
they saw that “our flag was still there,” and soon 
they were informed that the attack had failed. In 
the fervor of the moment, Mr. Key took an old letter 
from his pocket, and on its back wrote the most of 
this celebrated song, finishing it as soon as he reached 
Baltimore, lie showed it to his friend Judge Nicliol- 
son, who was so pleased with it that he placed it at 
once in the hands of the printer, and in an hour after 
it was all over the city, and hailed with enthusiasm, 
and took its place at once as a national song. Thus, 
this patriotic, impassioned ode became forever asso¬ 
ciated with the “Stars and Stripes.” 


! SAY, can you see, by the dawn’s early light, 
What so proudly we hail’d at the twilight’s 
last gleaming; 

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, 
through the perilous fight, 

O’er the ramparts we watch’d, were so gallantly 
streaming ? 

And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
Gave proof thro’ the night that our flag was still 
there; 

0! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 

I 

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the 
deep 

Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence 
reposes, 

What is that which the breeze o’er the towering 
steep 

As it fitfully blows, half-conceals, half discloses? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam ; 
Its full glory reflected now shines on the stream : 

’Tis the star-spangled banner, 0 ! long may it wave 
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

And where is the band who so vauntingly swore, 

Mid the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion, 

A home and a country they’d leave us no more ? 
Their blood hath wash’d out their foul footsteps’ 
pollution ; 

No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave, 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

0 ! thus be it ever, when freeman shall stand 

Between our loved home and the war’s desolation; 
Bless’d with victory and peace, may the heaven- 
rescued land 

Praise the power that hath made and preserved us 
a nation ! 

Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, 

And this be our motto, “ In God is our trust,” 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O’er the land of the free a"' 1 hoaat of the brave. 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

BY JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 

Born in New York, August 17, 1795; died Scptem 

ber 21, 1820. 

HEN Freedom from her mountain height, 
Unfurled her standard to (he air, 

She tore the azure robe of night, 

And set the stars of glory there 1 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies, 

And striped its pure celestial white 
With streakings of the morning light; 

Then, from his mansion in the sun, 

She called her eagle-bearer down, 

And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land ! 

Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 

Who rear’st aloft thy regal form, 

To hear the tempest trumping loud, 

And see the lightning lances driven, 

When strive the warriors of the storm, 

And rolls the tliunder-drum of heaven— 

Child of the sun ! to thee ’tis given 
To guard the banner of the free, 

To hover in the sulphur smoke, 

To ward away the battle-stroke, 

And bid its blendings shine afar, 

Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

The harbingers of victory ! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 

The sign of hope and triumph high ! 

When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, 

And the long line comes gleaming on, 

Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 

Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 

Each soldier’s eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born glories burn, 

And, as his springing steps advance, 

Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 

And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 

And gory sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight’s pall, 

Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 

And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 
That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o’er the brave 
When death, careering on the gale, 

Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 

And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside’s reeling rack, 














MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


393 


Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 

And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o’er his closing eye. 

/ 

Flag of the free heart’s hope and home, 

By angel hands to valor given ! 

Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
Forever float that standard sheet! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before us! 
With freedom’s soil beneath our feet, 

And freedom’s banner streaming o’er us! 


The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, 
Said: “E’en the blindest man 
Can tell what this resembles most; 

Deny the fact who can, 

This marvel of an elephant, 

Is very like a fan!” 

The Sixth no sooner had begun 
About the beast to grope, 

Than, seizing on the swinging tail 
That fell within his scope, 

“I see,” quoth he, “the elephant 
Is very like a rope!” 




BLIND MAN AND THE ELEPHANT. 

BY JOHN GODFREY SAXE. 

Born in Vermont, June 2, 1816; died in Albany, 
N. Y., March 31, 1887. 

T was six men of Indostan 

To learning much inclined, 

Who went see the elephant 

(Though all of them were blind,) 

That each by observation 
Might satisfy his mind. 



And so these men of Indostan 
Disputed loud and long, 

Each in his own opinion 
Exceeding stiff and strong, 

Though each was partly in the right- 
And all were in the wrong! 

MORAL. 

So, oft in theologic wars 
The disputants, I ween, 

Bail on in utter ignorance 
Of what each other mean, 

And prate about an elephant 
Not one of them has seen! 


The First approached the elephant, 

And, happening to fall 
Against his broad and sturdy side, 

At once began to bawl: 

“ God bless me! but the elephant 
Is very like a wall! ” 

The Second, feeling of the tusk, 

Cried: “Ho! what have we here 
So very round and smooth and sharp? 

To me ’tis mighty clear 
This wonder of an elephant 
Is very like a spear!” 

The Third approached the animal, 

And, happening to take 
The squirming trunk within his hands, 
Thus boldly up and spake: 

“I see,” quoth he, “the elephant 
Is very like a snake! ” 

The Fourth reached out his eager hand, 
And felt about the knee, 

“ What most this wondrous beast is like 
I's mighty plain,” quoth he; 

“Tis clear enough the elephant 
Is very like a tree!” 


— - •<>♦ - — 

HAIL, COLUMBIA! 

BY JOSEPH HOPKINSON. 

Born 1770 ; died 1842. The following interesting 
story is told concerning the writing of this now fa¬ 
mous patriotic song. “It was written in the summer 
of 1798, when war with France was thought to be 
inevitable. Congress was then in session in Phila¬ 
delphia, deliberating upon that important subject, 
and acts of hostility had actually taken place. The 
contest between England and France was raging, 
and the people of the United States were divided into 
parties for the one side or the other, some thinking 
that policy and duty required us to espouse the cause 
of republican France, as she was called ; while others 
were for connecting ourselves with England, under 
the belief that she was the great conservative power 
of good principles and safe government. The viola¬ 
tion of our rights by both belligerents was forcing us 
from the just and wise policy of President Washing¬ 
ton, which was to do equal justice to both, to take 
part with neither, but to preserve a strict and honest 
neutrality between them. The prospect of a rup¬ 
ture with France was exceedingly offensive to the 
portion of the people who espoused her cause ; and 
the violence of the spirit of party has never risen 
higher, I think not so high, in our country, as it did 
at that time, upon that question. The theatre was 
then open in our city. A young man belonging to it, 
whose talent was as a singer, was about to take his 
benefit. I had known him when he was at school. 
On this acquaintance, he called on me one Saturday 














394 


MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


afternoon, his benefit being announced for the follow¬ 
ing Monday. His prospects were very dishearten¬ 
ing; but he said that if he could get a patriotic song 
adapted to the tune of the ‘President’s March’, he 
did not doubt of a full house ; that the poets of the 
theatrical corps had been trying to accomplish it, but 
had not succeeded. I told him I would try what I 
could do for him. He came the next afternoon, and 
the song, such as it was, was ready for him. The 
object of the author was to get up an American spirit, 
which should be independent of and above the inter¬ 
ests, passions, and policy of both belligerents, and 
look and feel exclusively for our own honor and 
rights. No allusion is made to France or England, 
or the quarrel between them, or to the question which 
was most in fault in their treatment of us. Of course 
the song found favor with both parties, for both 
were Americans : at least, neither could disavow the 
sentiments and feelings it inculcated. Such is the 
history of this song, which has endured infinitely be¬ 
yond the expectation of the author, as it is beyond 
any merit it can boast of, except that of being truly 
and exclusively patriotic in its sentiments and spirit.” 

AIL, Columbia ! bappy land ! 

Hail, ye heroes ! heaven-born band ! 

Who fought and bled in Freedom’s cause. 
Who fought and bled in Freedom’s cause, 
And when the storm of war was gone, 

Enjoy’d the peace your valor won. 

Let independence be our boast, 

Ever mindful what it cost; 

Ever grateful for the prize ; 

Let its altar reach the skies. 

Firm—united—let us be, 

Rallying round our liberty ; 

As a band of brothers join’d, 

Peace and safety we shall find. 

Immortal patriots ! rise once more ; 

Defend your rights, defend your shore; 

Let no rude foe, with impious hand, 

Let no rude foe with impious hand, 

Invade the shrine where sacred lies 
Of toil and blood the well-earn’d prize. 

While offering peace sincere and j ust, 

In Heaven we place a manly trust, 

That truth and justice will prevail, 

And every scheme of bondage fail. 

Firm—united, etc. 

Sound, sound the trump of Fame ! 

Let Washington’s great name 
Ring through the world with loud applause, 
Ring through the world with loud applause ; 

Let every clime to Freedom dear 
Listen with a joyful ear. 

With equal skill and godlike power, 

He governs in the fearful hour 
Of horrid war ; or guides, with ease, 

The-happier times of honest peace. 

Firm—united, etc. 



Behold the chief who now commands, 
Once more to serve his country stands,— 
The rock on which the storm will beat, 
The rock on which the storm will beat; 
But, arm’d in virtue firm and true, 

His hopes are fix’d on Heaven and you. 
When Hope was sinking in dismay, 

And glooms obscured Columbia’s day, 
His steady mind, from changes free, 
Resolved on death or liberty. 

Firm—united, etc. 




BETTY AND THE BEAR. 

HUMOROUS. 

N a pioneer’s cabin out West, so they say, 
A great big black grizzly trotted one day, 
And seated himself on the hearth, and 
began 

To lap the contents of a two-gallon pan 
Of milk and potatoes,—an excellent meal,— 

And then looked about to see what he could steal. 
The lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep, 

And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peep 
Just out in the kitchen, to see what was there, 

And was scared to behold a great grizzly bear. 

So he screamed in alarm to his slumbering frow , 

“ Thar’s a bar in the kitchen as big’s a cow ! ” 

“A what?” “Why, a bar!” “ Well, murder him, 
then ! ” 

“ Yes, Betty, I will, if you’ll first venture in.” 

So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized, 

While her man shut the door, and against it he 
squeezed. 

As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blows, 

Now on his forehead, and now on his nose, 

Her man through the key-hole kept shouting within, 
“ Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him agin, 

Now a rap on the ribs, now a knock on the snout, 
Now poke with the poker, and poke his eyes out.” 
So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty alone, 

At last laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone. 

Now when the old man saw the bear was no more, 
He ventured to poke his nose out of the door, 

And there was the grizzly stretched on the floor. 
Then off to the neighbors he hastened to tell 
All the wonderful things that that morning befell \ 
And he published the marvelous story afar, 

How “ me and my Betty jist slaughtered a bar ! 

0 yes, come and see, all the neighbors hev sid it, 
Come see what we did, me and Betty, we did it.” 

Anonymous. 


















MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


395 





As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, 
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, 
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, 

With a sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. 

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof 
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 

As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. 
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, 
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and 
soot; 

A bundle of toys he had flung on his hack, 

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. 
His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how 
merry! 

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! 


BY CLEMENT C. MOORE. 


Born in New York, July 15. 1779; died in Rhode 
Island, July 10, 1863. 


WAS the night before Christmas, when all 
through the house 

Not a creature was stirring, not even a 
mouse; 

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. 

The children were nestled all snug in their beds 
While visions of sugar-plums danced through their 
heads; 

And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, 

Had settled our brains for a long winter’s nap, 

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 


iTTTiTUv 

nrmrr 


I sprang from the bed to see what 
was the matter. 

Away to the window I flew like a 
flash, 

Tore open the shutters and threw 
up the sash. 

The moon on the breast of the new- 
fallen snow 

Gave the lustre of mid-day to ob¬ 
jects below; 

When what to my wondering eyes 

should appear j} 

But a miniature sleigh and eight ^ 
tiny reindeer, 

With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 

I knew in a moment it must he St. Nick. 

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, 

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by 
name: 

“ Now, Dasher ! now, Dancer ! now, Prancer ! and 
Vixen ! 

On, Comet! on, Cupid ! on, Donder and Blitzen ! 

To the top of the porch ! to the top of the wall! 

Now dash away ! dash away ! dash away all! ” 

























































MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES 


396 



His droll little mouth was drawn up 
like a bow, 

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; 
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. 
He had a broad face, and a little round belly 
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. 
He was chubby and plump—a right jolly old elf— 
And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself; 
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, 

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to # dread; 

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, 
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, 
And laying his finger aside of his nose, 

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 

He sprang to the sleigh, to the team gave a whistle, 
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle, 


But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 
“ Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night! ” 






































MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


397 


WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. 

Born in Pennsylvania in 1802 ; died in 1864. 

OODMAN, spare that tree ! 

Touch not a single bough ! 

In youth it sheltered me, 

And I'll protect it now. 

’Twas my forefather’s hand 
That placed it near his cot; 

There, woodman, let it stand, 

Thy axe shall harm it not I 

That old familiar tree, 

Whose glory and renown 
A re spread o’er land and sea, 

And wouldst thou hew it down? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties; 

O, spare that aged oak, 

Now towering to the skies! 

When but an idle boy 

I sought its grateful shade; 

In all their gushing joy 
Here too my sisters played. 

My mother kissed, me here ; 

My father pressed my hand— 

Forgive this foolish tear, 

But let that old oak stand ! 

My heart-strings round thee cling, 

Close as thy bark, old friend! 

Here shall the wild-bird sing, 

And still thy branches bend. 

Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 

And, woodman, leave the spot; 

While I’ve a hand to save, 

Thy axe shall hurt it not. 





SANCTITY OF TREATIES, 1796. 


character of the virtue. It soars higher for its object. 
It is an extended self-love, mingling with all the en¬ 
joyments of life, and twisting itself with the minutest 
filaments of the heart. It is thus we obey the laws 
of society because they are the laws of virtue. In 
their authority we see, not the array of force and 
terror, but the venerable image of our country’s 
honor. Every good citizen makes that honor his 
own, and cherishes it, not only as precious, but as 
sacred. He is willing to risk his life in its defence, 
and is conscious that he gains protection while he 
gives it. 

What rights of a citizen will be deemed inviolable, 
when a State renounces the principles that constitute 
their security? Or, if his life should not be invaded, 
what would its enjoyments be, in a country odious in 
the eye of strangers, and dishonored in his own? 
Could he look with affection and veneration to such 
a country, as his parent? The sense of having one 
would die within him; he would blush for his pa¬ 
triotism, if he retained any,—and justly, for it would 
be a vice. He would be a banished man in his na¬ 
tive land. 

I see no exception to the respect that is paid 
among nations to the law of good faith. It is the 
philosophy of politics, the religion of governments. 
It is observed by barbarians. A whiff of tobacco 
smoke or a string of beads gives not merely binding 
force, but sanctity, to treaties. Even in Algiers, a 
truce may be bought for money; but when ratified, 
even Algiers is too wise, or too just, to disown and 
annul its obligation. 




THE BLOOM WAS ON THE ALDER AND 
THE TASSEL ON THE CORN. 

BY DONN PIATT. 


BY FISHER AMES. 

An American Statesman and writer; born in Dedham, 
Massachusetts, 1758, and died July 4, 1808. 

E are either to execute this treaty or break 
our faith. To expatiate on the value of 
public faith may pass with some men for 
declamation: to such men I have nothing to say. 

What is patriotism ? Is it a narrow affection for a 
spot where a man was born ? Are the very clods 
where we tread entitled to this ardent preference, be¬ 
cause they are greener? No, sir; this is not the 



Born in Ohio in 1819. 

HEARD the bob-white whistle in the dew) 
breath of morn; 

The bloom was on the alder and the tas 
sel on the corn. 

I stood with beating heart beside the babbling Mac 
o-chee, 

To see my love come down the glen to keep her tryst 
with me. 

I saw her pace, with quiet grace, the shaded path 
along, 

























MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


398 

And pause to pluck a flower or hear the thrush’s song. 

.Denied by her proud father as a suitor to be seen, 

She came to me, with loving trust, my gracious little 
queen. 

Above my station, heaven knows, that gentle maiden 

shone, 

For she was belle and wide beloved, and I a youth 
unknown. 

The rich and great about her thronged, and sought 
on bended knee 

For love this gracious princess gave, with all her 
heart, to me. 

So like a startled fawn before my longing eyes she 
stood, 

With all the freshness of a girl in flush of woman¬ 
hood. 

I trembled as I put my arm about her form divine, 

And stammered, as in awkward speech, I begged her 
to be mine. 

’Tis sweet to hear the pattering rain, that lulls a dim- 
lit dream— 

’Tis sweet to hear the song of birds, and sweet the 
rippling stream; 

’Tis sweet amid the mountain pines to hear the south 
winds sigh, 

More sweet than these and all beside was the loving, 
low reply. 

The little hand I held in mine held all I had of life, 

To mould its better destiny and soothe to sleep its strife. 

’Tis said that angels watch o’er men, commissioned 
from above; 

My angel walked with me on earth, and gave to me 
her love. 

Ah! dearest wife, my heart is stirred, my eyes are 
dim with tears— 

I think upon the loving faith of all these bygone 
years, 

For now we stand upon this spot, as in that dewy 
morn, 

With the bloom upon the alder and the tassel on the 
corn. 

•<>• — 

THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. 

BY J. Q. ADAMS. 

John Quincy Adams, the sixth President of the 

United States, was born at Quincy, Massachusetts, 

July 11, 1767. He died at Washington in 1848. 

HE Declaration of Independence ! The in¬ 
terest which, in that paper, has survived 
the occasion upon which it was issued,— 


the interest which is of every age and every clime,— 
the interest which quickens with the lapse of years, 
spreads as it grows old, and brightens as it recedes,— 
is in the principles which it proclaims. It was the 
first solemn declaration by a nation of the only legiti¬ 
mate foundation of civil government. It was the 
corner-stone of a new fabric, destined to cover the 
surface of the globe. It demolished, at a stroke, the 
lawfulness of all governments founded upon conquest. 
It swept away all the rubbish of accumulated cen¬ 
turies of servitude. It announced, in practical form 
to the world, the transcendent truth of the inalien¬ 
able sovereignty of the people. It proved that the 
social compact was no figment of the imagination, 
but a real, solid, and sacred bond of the social union. 

From the day of this declaration, the people of 
North America were no longer the fragment of a 
distant empire, imploring justice and mercy from an 
inexorable master, in another hemisphere. They 
were no longer children, appealing in vain to the 
sympathies of a heartless mother; no longer subjects, 
leaning upon the shattered columns of royal prom¬ 
ises, and invoking the faith of parchment to secure 
their rights. They were a nation, asserting as cf 
right, and maintained by war, its own existence. A 
nation was born in a day. 

“ How many ages hence 

Shall this, their lofty scene, be acted o’er, 

In States unborn, and accents yet unknown ? ” 

It will be acted o’er, fellow-citizens, but it can never 
be repeated. 

It stands, and must forever stand, alone ; a beacon on 
the summit of the mountain, to which all the inhabi¬ 
tants of the earth may turn their eyes, for a genial 
and saving light, till time shall be lost in eternity and 
this globe itself dissolve, nor leave a wreck behind. 
It stands forever, a light of admonition to the 
rulers of men, a light of salvation and redemption 
to the oppressed. So long as this planet shall be 
inhabited by human beings, so long as man shall 
be of a social nature, so long as government shall be 
necessary to the great moral purposes of society, so 
long as it shall be abused to the purposes of op¬ 
pression,—so long shall this declaration hold out, to 
the sovereign and to the subject, the extent and the 
boundaries of their respective rights and duties, 
founded in the laws of nature and of nature’s God. 











MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


399 


WASHINGTON’S ADDRESS TO HIS SOL¬ 
DIERS BEFORE THE BATTLE OF 
LONG ISLAND, 1776. 

BY GEORGE WASHINGTON. 

Born 1732 ; died 1799. 

HE time is now near at hand which must 
probably determine whether Americans 
are to be freemen or slaves; whether they 
are to have any property they can call their own ; 
whether their houses and farms are to be pillaged 
and destroyed, and themselves consigned to a state of 
wretchedness from which no human efforts will de¬ 
liver them. The fate of unborn millions will now 
depend, under God, on the courage and conduct of 
this army. Our cruel and unrelenting enemy leaves 
us only the choice of a brave resistance, or the most 
abject submission. We have, therefore, to resolve to 
conquer or to die. 

Our own, our country’s honor, calls upon us for a 
vigorous and manly exertion ; and if we now shame¬ 
fully fail, we shall become infamous to the whole 
world. Let us, then, rely on the goodness of our 
cause, and the aid of the Supreme Being, in whose 
hands victory is, to animate and encourage us to great 
and noble actions. The eyes of all our countrymen 
are now upon us; and we shall have their blessings 
and praises, if happily we are the instruments of sav¬ 
ing them from the tyranny meditated against them. 
Let us, therefore, animate and encourage each other, 
and show the whole world that a freeman contending 
for liberty on his own ground is superior to any slav¬ 
ish mercenary on earth. 

Liberty, property, life, and honor are all at stake. 
Upon your courage and conduct rest the hopes of 
our bleeding and insulted country. Our wives, chil¬ 
dren and parents, expect safety from us only; and 
they have every reason to believe that Heaven will 
crown with success so just a cause. The enemy will 
endeavor to intimidate by show and appearance; but 
remember they have been repulsed on various occa¬ 
sions by a few brave Americans. Their cause is bad, 
—their men are conscious of it; and, if opposed with 
firmness and coolness on their first onset, with our 
advantage of works, and knowledge of the ground, 
the victory is most assuredly ours. Every good 
soldier will be silent and attentive, wait for orders, 
and reserve his fire until he is sure of doing execution. 


THE GENERAL GOVERNMENT AND 
THE STATES. 

BY ALEXANDER HAMILTON. 

Born in Nevis, one of the West India Islands, in 
1757 ; was killed by Aaron Burr, in a duel, in 1804. 

This speech was delivered in the New York Con¬ 
vention, on the adoption of the Constitution, 1788. 

|R. CHAIRMAN, it has been advanced as a 
principle, that no government but a des¬ 
potism can exist in a very extensive coun¬ 
try. This is a melancholy consideration, indeed. If 
it were founded on truth, we ought to dismiss the 
idea of a republican government, even for the State 
of New York. But the position has been misappre¬ 
hended. Its application relates only to democracies, 
where the body of the people meet to transact busi¬ 
ness, and where representation is unknown. The 
application is wrong in respect to all representative 
governments, but especially in relation to a Con¬ 
federacy of States, in which the Supreme Legislature 
has only general powers, and the civil and domestic 
concerns of the people are regulated by the laws of 
the several States. I insist that it never can be the 
interest or desire of the national Legislature to destroy 
the State Governments. The blow aimed at the mem¬ 
bers must give a fatal wound to the head, and the 
destruction of the States must be at once a political 
suicide. But imagine, for a moment, that a political 
frenzy should seize the government; suppose they 
should make the attempt. Certainly, sir, it would be 
forever impracticable. This has been sufficiently 
demonstrated by reason and experience. It has been 
proved that the members of republics have been, and 
ever will be, stronger than the head. Let us attend 
to one general historical example. 

In the ancient feudal governments of Europe, there 
were, in the first place, a monarch ; subordinate to 
him, a body of nobles; and subject to these, the 
vassals, or the whole body of the people. The author¬ 
ity of the kings was limited, and that of the barons 
considerably independent. The histories of the feudal 
wars exhibit little more than a series of successful en¬ 
croachments on the prerogatives of monarchy. 

Here, sir, is one great proof of the superiority 
which the members in limited governments possess 
over their head. As long as the barons enjoyed the 
confidence and attachment of the people, they had 
the strength of the country on their side, and were 













400 


MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


irresistible. I may be told in some instances the 
barons were overcome; but how did this happen ? 
Sir, they took advantage of the depression of the 
royal authority, and the establishment of their own 
power, to oppress and tyrannize over their vassals. 
As commerce enlarged, and wealth and civilization 
increased, the people began to feel their own weight 
and consequence; they grew tired of their oppres¬ 
sions ; united their strength with that of their prince, 
and threw off the yoke of aristocracy. 

These very instances prove what I contend for. 
They prove that in whatever direction the popular 
weight leans, the current of power will flow; what¬ 
ever the popular attachments be, there will rest the 
political superiority. Sir, can it be supposed that 
the State Governments will become the oppressors of 
the people ? Will they forfeit their affections ? Will 
they combine to destroy the liberties and happiness 
of their fellow-citizens, for the sole purpose of involv¬ 
ing themselves in ruin ? God forbid ! The idea, sir, is 
shocking ! It outrages every feeling of humanity and 
every dictate of common sense ! 

•Os- 

WHAT SAVED THE UNION. 

BY GENERAL U. S. GRANT. 

Born 1822 ; died 1885. 

From a speech delivered on the Fourth of July at 
Hamburg. 

SHARE with you in all the pleasure and 
gratitude which Americans so far away 
should feel on this anniversary. But I 
must dissent from one remark of our consul, to the 
effect that I saved the country during the recent war. 
If our country could be saved or ruined by the 
efforts of any one man, we should not have a country, 
and we should not now be celebrating our Fourth of 
July. There are many men who would have done 
far better than I did, under the circumstances in 
which I found myself during the war. If I had 
never held command, if I had fallen, if all our gen¬ 
erals had fallen, there were ten thousand behind us 
who would have done our work just as well, who 
would have followed the contest to the end, and 
never surrendered the Union. Therefore, it is a 
mistake and a reflection upon the people to attribute 
to me, or to any number of us who hold high com¬ 



mands, the salvation of the Union. We did our 
work as well as we could, so did hundreds of thou¬ 
sands of others. We demand no credit for it, for we 
should have been unworthy of our country and of 
the American name if we had not made every sacri¬ 
fice to save the Union. What saved the Union was 
the coming forward of the young men of the nation. 
They came from their homes and fields, as they did 
in the time of the Revolution, giving everything to 
the country. To their devotion we owe the salvation 
of the Union. The humblest soldier who carried a 
musket is entitled to as much credit for the results 
of the war as those who were in command. So long 
as our young men are animated by this spirit there 
will be no fear for the Union. 


-•<>•- 

THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON. 

BY RUFUS CHOATE. 

Born 1799 ; died 1858. 

HE birthday of the “ Father of his Coun¬ 
try ! ” May it ever be freshly remem¬ 
bered by American hearts! May it ever 
reawaken in them filial veneration for his memory; 
ever rekindle the fires of patriotic regard to the 
country he loved so well; to which he gave his youth¬ 
ful vigor and his youthful energy, during the perilous 
period of the early Indian warfare; to which he de¬ 
voted his life, in the maturity of his powers, in the 
field; to which again he offered the counsels of his 
wisdom and his experience, as President of the Con¬ 
vention that framed our Constitution ; which he 
guided and directed while in the Chair of State, and 
for which the last prayer of his earthly supplication 
was offered up, when it came the moment for him so 
well, and so grandly, and so calmly, to die. He was 
the first man of the time in which he grew. His 
memory is first and most sacred in our love ; and ever 
hereafter, till the last drop of blood shall freeze in the 
last American heart, his name shall be a spell of 
power and might. 

Yes, gentlemen, there is one personal, one vast 
felicity, which no man can share with him. It was 
the daily beauty and towering and matchless glory 
of his life, which enabled him to create his country, 
and, at the same time, secure an undying love and 



















MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


401 


regard from the whole American people. “ The first 
in the hearts of his countrymen ! ” Yes, first! lie 
has our first and most fervent love. Undoubtedly 
there were brave and wise and good men, before his 
day, in every colony. Hut the American nation, as 
a nation, I do not reckon to have begun before 1774. 
And the first love of that young America was Wash¬ 
ington. The first word she lisped was his name. Her 
earliest breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejacula¬ 
tion ; and it will be the last gasp of her expiring life! 

Yes, others of our great men have been appre¬ 
ciated,—many admired by all. But him we love. 
Him we all love. About and around him we call 
up no dissentient and discordant and dissatisfied ele¬ 
ments,—no sectional prejudice nor bias,—no party, 
no creed, no dogma of politics. None of these shall 
assail him. Yes, when the storm of battle blows 
darkest and rages highest, the memory of Washington 
shall nerve every American arm and cheer every 
American heart. It shall relume that promethean 
fire, that sublime flame of patriotism, that devoted 
love of country, which his words have commended, 
which his example has consecrated. Well did Lord 
Byron write: 

“ Where may the wearied eye repose, 

When gazing on the great, 

Where neither guilty glory glows, 

Nor despicable state?— 

Yes—one—the first, the last, the best, 

The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate, 

Bequeathed the name of Washington, 

To make man blush, there was but one.” 

- K >» — 

OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF 
MORTAL BE PROUD? 

BY WILLIAM KNOX. 

A favorite poem with Abraham Lincoln, who often 
repeated it to his friends. 

H ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying 
cloud, 

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, 
Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave. 

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 

Be scattered around, and together be laid; 

And the young and the old, and the low and the high, 
Shall molder to dust, and together shall lie. 

24 P. IL 


The infant a mother attended and loved; 

The mother that infant’s affection who proved; 

The husband that mother and infant who blessed,— 
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose 

eye, 

Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs are by; 
And the memory of those who loved her and praised 
Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne ; 
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn; 

The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, 

Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave. 

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap; 

The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the 
steep; 

The beggar who wandered in search of his bread, 
Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven ; 
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven; 

The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 

Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 

So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed 
That withers away to let others succeed ; 

So the multitude comes, even those we behold, 

To repeat every tale that has often been told. 

For we are the same our fathers have been; 

We see the same sights our fathers have seen ; 

We drink the same stream, and view the same sun, 
And run the same course our fathers have run. 

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would 
think ; 

From the death we are shrinking our fathers would 
shrink ; 

To the life we are clinging they also would cling; 

But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing. 

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold ; 

They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; 
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will 
come; 

They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is 
dumb. 

They died, aye ! they died ; and we things that are 
now, 

Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, 

Who make in their dwelling a transient abode, 

Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage 
road. 











402 


MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, 

We mingle together in sunshine and rain ; 

And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge, 
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 

’Tis the wink of an eye, ’tis the draught of a breath, 
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,— 
Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 

-- 

COLUMBUS IN CHAINS. 


THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 

BY THEODORE O’HARA. 

Born in Danville, Kentucky, 1820; died in Alabama, 
1867. This famous poem was written in honor of 
a comrade of the author, a Kentucky soldier, who 
fell mortally wounded in the battle of Buena Vista. 

HE muffled drum’s sad roll has beat 
The soldier’s last tattoo; 

No more on life’s parade shall meet 
The brave and fallen few. 

On fame’s eternal camping-ground 
Their silent tents are spread, 

And glory guards with solemn round 
The bivouac of the dead. 



BY MISS JEWSBURY. 

ND this, 0 Spain ! is thy return 
For the new world I gave! 

Chains !—this the recompense I earn ! 
The fetters of the slave ! 

Yon sun that sinketh ’neath the sea, 

Rises on realms I found for thee. 

I served thee as a son would serve ; 

I loved thee with a father’s love; 

It ruled my thought, and strung my nerve, 

To raise thee other lands above, 

That thou, with all thy wealth, might be 
The single empress of the sea. 

For thee my form is bowed and worn 
With midnight watches on the main; 

For thee my soul hath calmly borne 

Ills worse than sorrow, more than pain; 
Through life, what’er my lot might be, 

I lived, dared, suffered, but for thee. 

My guerdon !—’Tis a furrowed brow, 

Hair gray with grief, eyes dim with tears, 
And blighted hope, and broken vow, 

And poverty for coming years, 

And hate, with malice in her train :— 

What other guerdon ?—View my chain ! 

Yet say not that I weep for gold! 

No, let it be the robber’s spoil.— 

Nor yet, that hate and malice bold 
Decry my triumph and my toil.— 

I weep but for Spain’s lasting shame; 

I weep but for her blackened fame. 



No rumor of the foe’s advance 
Now swells upon the wind, 

No troubled thought at midnight haunts 
Of loved ones left behind; 

No vision of the morrow’s strife 
The warrior’s dream alarms, 

No braying horn or screaming fife 
At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust, 
Their plumed heads are bowed, 

Their haughty banner trailed in dust 
Is now their martial shroud— 

And plenteous funeral tears have washed 
The red stains from each brow, 

And the proud forms by battle gashed 
Are free from anguish now. 

The neighboring troop, the flashing blade, 
The bugle’s stirring blast, 

The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

The din and shout are passed— 

Nor war’s wild note, nor glory’s peal, 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that never more may feel 
The rapture of the fight. 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 
That sweeps his great plateau, 

Flushed with the triumph yet to gain 
Came down the serried foe— 

Who heard the thunder of the fray 
Break o’er the field beneath, 

Knew well the watchword of that day 
Was victory or death. 


No more.—The sunlight leaves the sea; 

Farewell, thou never-dying king! 

Earth’s clouds and changes change not thee, 
And thou—and thou,—grim, giant thing, 
Cause of my glory and my pain,— 

Farewell, unfathomable main ! 


Full many a mother’s breath hath swept 
O’er Angostura’s plain, 

And long the pitying sky has wept 
Above its moldered slain. 

The raven’s scream, or eagle’s flight, 

Or shepherd’s pensive lay, 














MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


403 


Alone now wake each solemn height 
That frowned o’er that dread fray. 

Sons of the dark and bloody ground, 

Ye must not slumber there, 

Where stranger steps and tongues resound 
Along the heedless air ! 

Your own proud land’s heroic soil 
Shall be your fitter grave ; 

She claims from war its richest spoil— 

The ashes of her brave. 

Thus ’neath their parent turf they rest, 

Far from the gory field, 

Borne to a Spartan mother’s breast 
On many a bloody shield. 

The sunshine of their native sky 
Shines sadly on them here, 

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 
The heroes’ sepulchre. 

Best on, embalmed and sainted dead! 

Bear as the blood ye gave; 

No impious footstep here shall tread 
The herbage of your grave ! 

Nor shall your glory be 1‘orgot 
While fame her record keeps, 

Or honor points the hallowed spot 
Where valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel’s voiceless stone 
In deathless song shall tell, 

When many a vanished year hath flown, 

The story how ye fell; 

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight, 

Nor time’s remorseless doom, 

Can dim one ray of holy light 
That gilds your glorious tomb. 

- . ♦<>«- 

ADDRESS AT THE DEDICATION OF 
GETTYSBURG CEMETERY. 

BY ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

Born 1809 ; died 1865. Mr. Lincoln always spoke, 
briefly and to the point. The following short oration, 
delivered at the dedication of the Gettysburg Ceme¬ 
tery, is universally regarded as one of the greatest 
masterpieces, of brief and simple eloquence, in the 
realm of oratory. 

OURSCORE and seven years ago our fathers 
brought forth upon this continent a new 
nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated 
to the proposition that all men are created equal. 
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing 
whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and 


so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a 
great battlefield of that war. We are met to dedi¬ 
cate a portion of it as the final resting-place of those 
who here gave their lives that that nation might 
live. 

It is altogether fitting and proper that we should 
do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we 
cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. 
The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, 
have consecrated it far above our power to add or 
detract. The world will little note, nor long remember 
what we say here, but it can never forget what they 
did here. 

It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here 
to the unfinished work they have thus far so nobly 
carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated 
to the great task remaining before us, that from these 
honored dead we take increased devotion to the 
cause for which they gave the last full measure of 
devotion ; that we here highly resolve that these dead 
shall not have died in vain, and that the nation shall, 
under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that 
the government of the people, by the people, and for 
the people shall not perish from the earth. 

-»o» - 

MEMORY. 

BY JAMES A. GARFIELD. 

Born 1831 ; died 1881. The following poem was 
writen by the late President Garfield during his senior 
year in Williams College, Massachusetts, and w y as 
published in the Williams “Quarterly” for March, 
1856. 

IS beauteous night; the stars look brightly 
down 

Upon the earth, decked in her robe of 
snow. 

No lights gleam at the windows, save my own, 

Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me. 

o o 

And now with noiseless step, sweet memory comes 
And leads me gently through her twilight realms. 
What poet’s tuneful lyre has ever sung, 

Or delicatest pencil e’er portrayed 
The enchanted, shadowy land where memory dwells; 
It has its valleys, cheerless, lone, and drear, 
Dark-shaded by the mournful cypress tree; 

And yet its sunlit mountain-tops are bathed 
In heaven’s own blue. Upon its craggy cliffs, 

Robed in the dreamy light of distant years, 

Are clustered joys serene of other days. 

Upon its gently sloping hillsides bend 















404 


MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


The weeping willows o’er the sacred dust 
Of dear departed ones; yet in that land, 

Where’er our footsteps fall upon the shore, 

They that were sleeping rise from out the dust 
Of death’s long, silent years, and round us stand 
As erst they did before the prison tomb 
Received their clay within its voiceless halls. 

The heavens that bend above that land are hung 
With clouds of various hues. Some dark and chill, 
Surcharged with sorrow, cast their sombre shade 
Upon the sunny, joyous land below. 

Others are floating through the dreamy air, 

White as the falling snow, their margins tinged 
With gold and crimson hues; their shadows fall 
Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes, 

Soft as the shadow of an angel’s wing. 

When the rough battle of the day is done, 

And evening’s peace falls gently on the heart, 

I bound away, across the noisy years, 

Unto the utmost verge of memory’s land, 

Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet, 

And memory dim with dark oblivion joins; 

Where woke the first remembered sounds that fell 
Upon the ear in childhood's early morn ; 

And, wandering thence along the rolling years, 

I see the shadow of my former self 
Gliding from childhood up to man’s estate; 

The path of youth winds down through many a vale, 
And on the brink of many a dread abyss, 

From out whose darkness comes no ray of light, 

Save that a phantom dances o’er the gulf 
And beckons toward the verge. Again the path 
Leads o’er the summit where the sunbeams fall; 

And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom, 
Sorrow and joy this life-path leads along. 

-»o« - — 


ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC. 

BY ETHELINDA ELLIOTT BEERS. 

Born in New York, 1827 ; died in New Jersey, 1879. 

The followin'! poem first appeared in “Harper’s 
Weekly” in 1861, and being published anonymously 
its authorship was, says Mr. Stedman, “falsely 
claimed by several persons.” 

LL quiet along the Potomac, they say, 

“ Except now and then a stray picket 
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, 
By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 

’Tis nothing; a private or two, now and then, 

Will not count in the news of the battle; 

Not an officer lost—only one of the men, 

Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.” 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; 



Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon. 

Or the light of the watchfires, are gleaming. • 

A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind 
Through the forest leaves softly is creeping; 

While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, 
Keep guard—for the army is sleeping. 

There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread 
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, 

And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed, 

Far away in the cot on the mountain. 

His musket falls slack ; his face, dark and grim, 
Grows gentle with memories tender, 

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, 

For their mother—may Heaven defend her! 

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, 
That night when the love yet unspoken 

Leaped up to his lips—when low, murmured vows 
Were pledged to be ever unbroken; 

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, 

He dashes off tears that are welling, 

And gathers his gun closer up to its place, 

As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree— 

The footstep is lagging and weary; 

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light. 
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 

Hark ! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? 
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? 

It looked like a rifle : “ Ha ! Mary, good-by ! ” 

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night— 

No sound save the rush of the river; 

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead— 
The picket’s off duty forever. 


-•O*- 


A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. 

BY EPES SARGENT. 

Born 1813 ; died 1880. The following beautiful 
and popular song, sung all over the world, like 
“ Home, Sweet Home,” is by an American author. It 
is one of those bits of lyric verse which will perpetu¬ 
ate the name of its writer longer, perhaps, then any 
of the many books which he gave to the world. 

LIFE on the ocean wave, 

A home on the rolling deep ; 

Where the scattered waters rave, 

And the winds their revels keep ! 

Like an angel caged I pine, 

On this dull, unchanging shore : 

0, give me the flashing brine, 

The spray and the tempest’s roar 1 

















MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


405 


Once more on the deck I stand, 

Of my own swift-gliding craft: 

Set sail! farewell to the land ; 

The gale follows fair abaft. 

We shoot through the sparkling foam, 

Like an ocean-bird set free,— 

Like the ocean-bird, our home 
We ll find far out on the sea. 

The land is no longer in view, 

The clouds have begun to frown; 

But with a stout vessel and crew, 

We 11 say, “ Let the storm come down ! ” 
And the song of our hearts shall be, 

While the winds and the waters rave, 

A home on the rolling sea ! 

A life on the ocean wave! 


THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 

BY F. M. FINCH. 

Born in Ithaca, N. Y., 1827. 

Many of the women of the South, animated by 
noble sentiments, have shown themselves impartial 
in their offerings made to the memory of the dead. 
They have strewn flowers alike on the graves of the 
Confederate and of the National soldiers. 

Y the flow of the inland river, 

Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, 
Asleep on the ranks of the dead: 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day ; 

Under the one, the Blue, 

Under the other, the Gray. 

These in the robings of glory, 

Those in the gloom of defeat, 

Ail with the battle-blood gory, 

In the dusk of eternity meet:— 

Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day ; 

Under the laurel, the Blue, 

Under the willow, the Gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours, 

The desolate mourners go, 

Lovingly laden with flowers, 

Alike for the friend and the foe:— 

Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day ; 

Under the roses, the Blue, 

Under the lilies, the Gray. 

So, with an equal splendor, 

The morning sun-rays fall, 

33 



With a touch impartially tender, 

On the blossoms blooming for all:— 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day ; 

Broidered with gold, the Blue, 

Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 

So, when the summer calleth, 

On forest and field of grain 

With an equal murmur falleth 
The cooling drip of the rain :— 

Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day; 

Wet with the rain, the Blue, 

Wet with the rain, the Gray. 

Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 

The generous deed was done; 

In the storm of the years that are fading, 

No braver battle was won :— 

Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day ; 

Under the blossoms, the Blue, 

Under the garlands, the Gray. 

No more shall the war-cry sever, 

Or the winding rivers be red ; 

They banish our anger forever 

When they laurel the graves of our dead! 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day ; 

Love and tears for the Blue. 

Tears and love for the Gray. 


ROLL-CALL. 

BY NATHANIEL P. SHEPHERD. 

Born in New York, 1835; died 1869. 

ORPORAL GREEN! ” the orderly cried; 

“ Here ! ” was the answer, loud and clear, 
From the lips of the soldier who stood 
near— 

And “ here ! ” was the word the next replied. 



u Cyrus Drew ! ’’—then a silence fell— 

This time no answer followed the call; 

Only his rear-man had seen him fall, 

Killed or wounded, he could not tell. 

There they stood in the failing light, 

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, 

As plain to be read as open books, 

While slowly gathered the shades of night. 

The fern on the hillsides was splashed with blood, 
And down in the corn where the poppies grew 



















406 


MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


Were redder stains than the poppies knew; 

And crimson-dyed was the river’s flood. 

For the foe had crossed from the other side 
That day, in the face of a murderous tire 
That swept them down in its terrible ire; 

And their life-blood went to color the tide. 

“ Herbert Kline ! ” At the call there came 
Two stalwart soldiers into the line 
Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, 
Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. 

“ Ezra Kerr ! ” and a voice answered, “ here ! ” 

“ Hiram Kerr ! ”—but no man replied. 

They were brothers, these two; the sad winds 
sighed, 

And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. 

“ Ephraim Deane ! ”—then a soldier spoke : 

“ Deane carried our regiment’s colors,” he said; 

“ Where our ensign was shot, I left him dead, 

Just after the enemy wavered and broke. 

“ Close to the roadside his body lies; 

I paused a moment and gave him drink ; 

He murmured his mother’s name, I think, 

And death came with it and closed his eyes.” 

’Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear— 

For that company’s roll, when called at night, 

Of a hundred men who went into the fight, 
Numbered but twenty that answered, “ Here ! ” 


’Cause he’ll ax you mighty closely ’bout your doin’s 
in de night, 

An’ de water-milion question’s gwine to bodder you a 
sight! 

Den your eyes’ll open wider dan dey ebber done befo’ 

When he chats you ’bout a chicken-scrape dat hap¬ 
pened long ago! 

De angels on the picket-line erlong de Milky Way 

Keep a-watehin’ what you’re dribin’ at, an’ bearin’ 
what you say; 

No matter what you want to do, no matter whar 
you’s gwine, 

Dey's mighty ap’ to find it out an’ pass it ’long de 
line; 

An’ of’en at de meetin’, when you make a fuss an’ 
laugh, 

Why, dey send de news a-kitin’ by de golden tele¬ 
graph 

Den, de angel in de orfis, what’s a settin’ by de gate, 

Jes' reads de message wid a look an’ claps it on de 
slate! 

Den you better do your juty well an’ keep your con¬ 
science clear. 

An’ keep a-lookin’ straight ahead an’ watchin’ whar 
you steer; 

’Cause arter while de time’ll come to journey fum de 
lan’, 

An’ dey'll take you way up in de a’r an’ put you on 
de stan’ ; 

Den you’ll hab to listen to de clerk an’ answer mighty 
straight, 

Ef you ebber ’spec’ to trabble froo de alaplaster gate ! 


RUIN WROUGHT BY RUM. 


THEOLOGY IN THE QUARTERS. 


(temperance selection.) 


BY J. A. MACON. 

Born in Alabama, 1851. 

Author of “ Uncle Gab Tucker." 

The following dialect verses are a faithful repro¬ 
duction, not only of the negro dialect of the cotton 
sections of the South ; but the genius of Mr. Macon 
has subtly embodied in this and other of liis writings 
a shadowy but true picture of the peculiar and orig¬ 
inal philosophy and humor of the poor but happy 
black people of the section with which he is so fa¬ 
miliar. 


OW, I’s got a notion in my head dat when 
you come to die, 

An’ stan’ de ’zamination in de Cote-house 
in de sky, 

You’ll be ’stonished at de questions dat de angel’s 
gwine to ax 

When he gits you on de witness-stan’ an’ pin you to 
de fac’s; 



0, feel what I have felt, 

Go, bear wdiat I have borne; 

Sink ’neath a blow a father dealt, 
And the cold, proud world’s scorn. 
Thus struggle on from year to year, 
Thy sole relief the scalding tear. 

Go, weep as I have wept 
O’er a loved father’s fall; 

See every cherished promise swept, 
Youth’s sweetness turned to gall; 
Hope’s faded flowers strewed all the way 
That led me up to woman’s day. 



Go, kneel as I have knelt; 

Implore, beseech and pray. 

Strive the besotted heart to melt, 

The downward course to stay; 

Be cast with bitter curse aside,— 

Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied. 
























MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


407 


Go, stand where I have stood, 

And see the strong man bow ; 

With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood, 

And cold and livid brow; 

Go, catch his wandering glance, and see 
There mirrored his soul’s misery. 

Go, hear what I have heard,— 

The sobs of sad despair, 

As memory’s feeling fount hath stirred, 

And its revealings there 
Have told him what he might have been, 

Had he the drunkard’s fate foreseen. 

Go to mv mother’s side, 

And her crushed spirit cheer; 

Thine own deep anguish hide, 

Wipe from her cheek the tear; 

Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow, 

The gray that streaks her dark hair now, 

The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb, 

And trace the ruin back to him 
Whose plighted faith in early youth, 

Promised eternal love and truth. 

But who, forsworn, hath yielded up 
This promise to the deadly cup, 

And led her down from love and light, 

From all that made her pathway bright, 

And chained her there ’mid want and strife, 

That lowly thing,—a drunkard’s wife ! 

And stamped on childhood’s brow, so mild, 

That withering blight,—a drunkard’s child! 

Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know 
All that my soul hath felt and known, 

Then look within the wine-cup’s glow; 

See if its brightness can atone ; 

Think of its flavor would you try, 

If all proclaimed,—’ Tis clrinh and die. 

Tell me I hate the bowl,— 

Hate is a feeble word ; 

I loathe, abhor, my very soul 
By strong disgust is stirred 
Whene’er I see, or hear, or tell 
Of the DARK BEVERAGE OF HELL ! 

Anonymous. 

- •<>• - 

TO A SKELETON. 

The MS. of this poem was found in the Museum 
of the Koval College of Surgeons, in London, near a 
perfect human skeleton, and sent by the curator to 
the “Morning Chronicle” for publication. It excited 
so much attention that every effort was made to dis¬ 
cover the author, and a responsible party went so far 
as to offer fifty guineas for information that would 
discover its origin. The author preserved his incog¬ 
nito, and, we believe, has never been discovered. 

bt> 



EHOLD this ruin ! ’Twas a skull. 

/ 

Once of ethereal spirit full. 

This narrow cell was life’s retread, 

This space was thought’s mysterious seat 
What beauteous visions filled this spot, 
What dreams of pleasure long forgot ? 
Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear, 
Have left one trace of record here. 


Beneath this moldering canopy 
Once shone the bright and busy eye ; 

But start not at the dismal void ; 

If social love that eye employed, 

If with no lawless fire it gleamed, 

But through the dews of kindness beamed,— 
That eye shall be forever bright 
When stars and sun are sunk in night. 

Within this hollow cavern hung 
The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue; 

If falsehood’s honey it disdained, 

And when it could not praise was chained* 

If bold in virtue’s cause it spoke, 

Yet gentle concord never broke,— 

This silent tongue shall plead for thee 
When time unveils eternity ! 

Say. did these fingers delve the mine, 

Or with the envied rubies shine? 

To hew the rock or wear a gem 
Can little now avail to them. 

But if the page of truth they sought, 

Or comfort to the mourner brought, 

These hands a richer meed shall claim 
Than all that wait on wealth and fame. 

Avails it whether bare or shod 
These feet the paths of duty trod ? 

If from the bowers of ease they fled, 

To seek affliction’s humble shed; 

If grandeur’s guilty bribe they spurned, 

And home to virtue’s cot returned,— 

These feet with angel wings shall vie, 

And tread the palace of the sky! 




PLEDGE WITH WINE. 

(A TEMPERANCE SELECTION.) 

LEDGE with wine—pledge with wine!” 

cried the young and thoughtless Harry 
1 Wood. “ Pledge with wine,” ran through 
the brilliant crowd. 

The beautiful bride grew pale—the docisivo hour 
had come,—she pressed her white hands together, 




















MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


408 

and the leaves of her bridal wreath trembled on her 
)ure brow ; her breath came quicker, her heart beat 
wilder. From her childhood she had been most 
solemnly opposed to the use of all wines and liquors. 

£ ‘ Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this 
once,” said the judge in a low tone, going towards 
his daughter, “ the company expect it; do not so 
seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette;—in 
your own house act as you please; but in mine, for 
this once please me.” 

Every eye was turned towards the bridal pair. 
Marion's principles were well known. Henry had 
been a convivialist, but of late his friends noticed the 
change in his manners, the difference in his habits— 
and to-night they watched him to see, as they sneer- 
ingly said, if he was tied down to a woman’s opinion 
so soon. 

Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with 
tempting smiles toward Marion. She was very pale, 
though more composed, and her hand shook not, as 
smiling back, she gratefully accepted the crystal 
tempter and raised it to her lips. But scarcely had 
she done so, when every hand was arrested by her 
piercing exclamation of “ Oh, how terrible ! ” “ What 
is it? ” cried one and all, thronging together, for she 
had slowly carried the glass at arm’s length, and was 
fixedly regarding it as though it were some hideous 
object. 

“ Wait,” she answered, while an inspired light 
shone from her dark eyes, “ wait and I will tell you. 
I see,” she added, slowly pointing one jeweled finger 
tot the sparkling ruby liquid, “ a sight that beggars 
aull description ; and yet listen ; I will paint it for you 
if I can : It is a lonely spot; tall mountains, crowned 
itH verdure, rise in awful sublimity around; a river 
ins through, and bright flowers grow to the water’s 
Ige. There is a thick, warm mist that the sun 
:eks vainly to pierce; trees, lofty and beautiful, 
ave to the airy motion of the birds; but there, a 
group of Indians gather; they flit to and fro with 
something like sorrow upon their dark brows; and in 
their midst lies a manly form, but his cheek, how 
deathly; his eye wild with the fitful fire of fever. 
One friend stands beside him, nay, I should say 
kneels, for he is pillowing that poor head upon his 
breast. 

“ Genius in ruins. Oh! the high, holy-looking 


brow ! Why should death mark it, and he so young? 
Look how he throws the damp curls! see him clasp 
his hands! hear his thrilling shrieks for life! mark 
how he clutches at the form of his companion, im¬ 
ploring to be saved. Oh ! hear him call piteously 
his father’s name; see him twine his fingers together 
as he shrieks for his sister—his only sister—the twin 
of his soul—weeping for him in his distant native 
land. 

“ See! ” she exclaimed, while the bridal party 
shrank back, the untasted wine trembling in their 
faltering grasp, and the judge fell, overpowered, upon 
his seat; “ see! his arms are lifted to heaven; he 
prays, how wildly, for mercy ! hot fever rushes through 
his veins. The friend beside him is weeping; awe¬ 
stricken, the dark men move silently, and leave the 
living and dying together.” 

There was a hush in that princely parlor, broken 
only by what seemed a smothered sob, from some 
manly bosom. The bride stood yet upright, with 
quivering lip, and tears stealing to the outward edge 
of her lashes. Her beautiful arm had lost its tension, 
and the glass, with its little troubled red waves, 
came slowly towards the range of her vision. She 
spoke again ; every lip was mute. Her voice was 
low, faint, yet awfully distinct: she still fixed her 
sorrowful glance upon the wine-cup. 

“ It is evening now; the great white moon is 
coming up, and her beams lie gently on his forehead. 
He moves not; his eyes are set in their sockets ; dim 
are their piercing glances ; in vain his friend whispers 
the name of father and sister—death is there. Death ! 
and no soft hand, no gentle voice to bless and soothe 
him. His head sinks back ! one convulsive shudder ! 
he is dead ! ” 

A groan ran through the assembly, so vivid was 
her description, so unearthly her look, so inspired her 
manner, that what she described seemed actually to 
have taken place then and there. They noticed also, 
that the bridegroom hid his face in his hands and w T as 
weeping. 

“ Dead ! ” she repeated again, her lips quivering 
faster and faster, and her voice more and more broken; 
“ and there they scoop him a grave ; and there, with¬ 
out a shroud, they lay him down in the damp, reek¬ 
ing earth. The only son of a proud father, the only 
idolized brother of a fond sister. And he sleeps to- 




MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


day in that distant country, with no stone to mark 
the spot. There he lies—my father’s son—my own 
twin brother! a victim to this deadly poison. 
Father,” she exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the 
tears rained down her beautiful cheeks, “ father, shall 
I drink it now ? ” 

The form of the old judge was convulsed with 
agony. He raised his head, but in a smothered 
voice he faltered—■“ No, no, my child; in God’s 
name, no.” 

She lifted the glittering goblet, and letting it sud¬ 
denly fall to the floor it was dashed into a thousand 
pieces. Many a tearful eye watched her movements, 
and instantaneously every wine-glass was transferred 
to the marble table on which it had been prepared. 
Then, as she looked at the fragments of crystal, she 
turned to the company, saying: “ Let no friend, 

hereafter, who loves me, tempt me to peril my soul 
for wine. Not firmer the everlasting hills than my 
resolve, God helping me, never to touch or taste that 
terrible poison. And he to whom I have given my 
hand ; who watched over my brother’s dying form in 
that last solemn hour, and buried the dear wanderer 
there by the river in that land of gold, will, I trust, 
sustain me in that resolve. Will you not, my hus¬ 
band ? ” 

His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet smile was her 
answer. 

The judge left the room, and when an hour later 
he returned, and with a more subdued manner took 
part in the entertainment of the bridal guests, no one 
could fail to read that he, too, had determined to dash 
the enemy at once and forever from his princely 
rooms. 

Those who were present at that wedding can never 
forget the impression so solemnly made. Many from 
that hour forswore the social glass. 

-- 

SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS AT 

CAPUA. 

BY ELIJAH KELLOG. 

Born in Portland, Maine, 1813. Spartacus was a 
Thracian soldier, w r ho was taken prisoner by the Ro¬ 
mans, made a slave, and trained as a gladiator. . He 
escaped with a number of fellow-gladiators, an inci¬ 
dent to which this speech is supposed to refer to. 
fle was killed in battle 71 B. C., while leading the 
Servile War against Rome. 


409 



T had been a day of triumph in Capua 
Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles 
had amused the populace with the sports 
of the amphitheatre to an extent hitherto unknown 
even in that luxurious city. The shouts of revelry 
had died away ; the roar of the lion had ceased; the 
last loiterer had retired from the banquet; and the 
lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished 
The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, sil¬ 
vered the dewdrops on the corslet of the Roman sen¬ 
tinel, and tipped the dark waters of the Vulturous 
with a wavy, tremulous light. No sound was heard, 

save the last sob of some retiring wave, telling its 

0/0 


story to the smooth pebbles of the beach ; and then 
all was as still as the breast when the spirit has de¬ 
parted. In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre, a 
band of gladiators were assembled ; their muscles 
still knotted with the agony of conflict, the foam upon 
their lips, the scowl of battle yet lingering on their 
brows; when Spartacus, arising in the midst of that 
grim assembly, thus addressed them : 

u Ye call me chief; and ye do well to call him 
chief who, for twelve long years, has met upon the 
arena every shape of man or beast the broad empire 
of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered 
his arm. If there be one among you who can say 
that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions 
did belie my tongue, let him stand forth and say it. 
If there be three in all your company dare face me 
on the bloody sands, let them come on. And yet I 
was not always thus,—a hired butcher, a savage 
chief of still more savage men ! My ancestors came 
from old Sparta, and settled among the vine-clad 
rocks and citron groves of Syrasella. My early life 
ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported; and 
when, at noon, I gathered the sheep beneath the 
shade, and played upon the shepherd’s flute, there 
was a friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the 
pastime. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and 
partook together our rustic meal. One evening, after 
the sheep were folded, and we were all seated be¬ 
neath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, my 
grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and 
Leuctra ; and how, in ancient times, a little band of 
Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood 
a whole army. I did not then know what war was; 
but my cheeks burned, I knew not why, and I clasped 











410 


MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


Lie knees of that venerable man, until my mother, 
parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my 
throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think 
no more of those old tales and savage wars. That 
very night the Romans landed on our coast. I saw 
the breast that had nourished me trampled by the 
hoof of the war-horse ; the bleeding body of my 
father flung amidst the blazing rafters of our dwell¬ 
ing! 

“ To-day I killed a man in the arena ; and, when I 
broke his helmet-clasps, behold! he was my friend. 
He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died ;—the 
same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked, 
when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty 
cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them 
home in childish triumph. I told the praetor that 
the dead man had been my friend, generous and 
brave ; and I begged that I might bear away the 
body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn over 
its ashes. Ay ! upon my knees, amid the dust and 
blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all 
the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy vir¬ 
gins they call Vestals, and the rabble, shouted in de¬ 
rision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome’s 
fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of 
that piece of bleeding clay ! And the praetor drew 
back as if I were pollution, and sternly said : 4 Let 
the carrion rot; there are no noble men but Romans !’ 
And so, fellow -gladiators, must you, and so must I, 
die like dogs. 0, Rome! Rome! thou hast been a 
tender nurse to me. Ay, thou hast given to that 
poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a 
harsher tone than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a 
heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through 
plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it 
in the marrow of his foe ;—to gaze into the glaring 
eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy 
upon a laughing girl! And he shall pay thee back, 
until the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in 
its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled ! 

“ Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are ! The 
strength of brass is in your toughened sinews ; but 
to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet per¬ 
fume from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers 
pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your 
blood. Hark! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? 
'Tis three days since he tasted flesh; but to-morrow 


he shall break his fast upon yours—and a dainty meal 
for him ye will be! If ye are beasts, then stand 
here like fat oxen, waiting for the butcher’s knife! 
If ye are men, —follow me ! Strike down yon guard, 
gain the mountain-passes, and there do bloody work, 
as did your sires at Old Thermopylae ! Is Sparta 
dead ? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, 
that you do crouch and cower like a belabored hound 
beneath his master’s lash ? 0 comrades ! warriors ! 

Thracians!—if we must fight, let us fight for our¬ 
selves ! If we must slaughter, let us slaughter oui 
oppressors ! If we must die, let it be under the cleai 
sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle !” 

■ - 

THE CRABBED MAN. 

{Extract from a Lecture.) 

BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE. 

Born 1832. One of the most eminent orators of 
the American pulpit. 

F all the ills that flesh is heir to, a cross, 
crabbed, ill-contented man is the most unen¬ 
durable, because the most inexcusable. No 
occasion, no matter how trifling, is permitted to pass 
without eliciting his dissent, his sneer, or his growl. 
His good and patient wife never yet prepared a dinner 
that he liked. One day she prepares a dish that she 
thinks will particularly please him. He comes in the 
front door, and says: “ Whew ! whew ! what have 
you got in the house? Now, my dear, you know that 
I never did like codfish.'’ Some evening, resolving to 
be especially gracious, he starts with his family to a 
place of amusement. He scolds the most of the 
way. He cannot afford the time or the money, and 
he does not believe the entertainment will be much, 
after all. The music begins. The audience are 
thrilled. The orchestra, with polished instruments, 
warble and weep, and thunder and pray—all the 
sweet sounds of the world flowering upon the strings 
of the bass viol, and wreathing the flageolets, and 
breathing from the lips of the cornet, and shaking 
their flower-bells upon the tinkling tambourine. 

He sits motionless and disgusted. He goes home 
saying: “ Did you see that fat musician that got s» 
red blowing that French horn? He looked like a 
stuffed toad. Did you ever hear such a voice as 








MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


that lady has ? \\ hy, it was a perfect squawk ! The 
evening was wasted.” And his companion says: 
“ Why, my dear ! ” “ There, you needn’t tell me— 
you are pleased with everything. But never ask me 
to go again! He goes to church. Perhaps the 
sermon is didactic and argumentative. He yawns. 
He gapes. He twists himself in his pew, and pre¬ 
tends he is asleep, and says: “ I could not keep 

awake. Did you ever hear anything so dead? Can 
these dry bones live?” Next Sabbath he enters a 
church where the minister is much given to illustra¬ 
tion. He is still more displeased. He says : “ How 
dare that man bring such every-day things into his 
pulpit ? He ought to h^ive brought his illustrations 
from the cedar of Lebanon and the fir-tree, instead 
of the hickory and sassafras. He ought to have 
spoken of the Euphrates and the Jordan, and not of 
the Kennebec and Schuylkill. He ought to have 
mentioned Mount Gerizim instead of the Catskills. 
Why, he ought to be disciplined. Why, it is 
ridiculous.” Perhaps afterward he joins the church. 
Then the church will have its hands full. He growls 
and groans and whines all the way up toward the 
gate of heaven. He wishes that the choir would 
sing differently, that the minister would preach 
differently, that the elders would pray differently. In 
the morning, he said, “ The church was as cold as 
Greenland ; ” in the evening, “ It was hot as blazes.” 
They painted the church ; he didn’t like the color. 
They carpeted the aisles ; he didn’t like the figure. 
They put in a new furnace; he didn't like the 
patent. Pie wriggles and squirms, and frets and 
stews, and worries himself. He is like a horse, that, 
prancing and uneasy to the bit, worries himself into 
a lather of foam, while the horse hitched beside him 
just pulls straight ahead, makes no fuss, and comes 
to his oats in peace. Like a hedge-hog, he is all 
quills. Like a crab that, you know, always goes the 
other way, and moves backward in order to go for¬ 
ward, and turns in four directions all at once, and the 
first you know of his whereabouts you have missed 
him, and when he is completely lost he has gone by 
the heel—so that the first thing you know you don’t 
know anything—and while you expected to catch the 
crab, the crab catches you. 

So some men are crabbed—all hard-shell and 
obstinacy and opposition. I do not see how he is to 


411 

get into heaven, unless he goes in backward, ano 
then there will be danger that at the gate he will try 
to pick a quarrel with St. Peter. Once in, I fear he 
will not like the music, and the services will be too 
long, and that he will spend the first two or three 
years in trying to find out whether the wall of heaven 
is exactly plumb. Let us stand off from such 
tendencies. Listen for sweet notes rather than dis¬ 
cords, picking up marigolds and harebells in preference 
to thistles and coloquintida, culturing thyme and ane¬ 
mones rather than night-shade. And in a world 
where God has put exquisite tinge upon the shell 
washed in the surf, and planted a paradise of bloom 
in a child’s cheek, and adorned the pillars of the rock 
by hanging tapestry of morning mist, the lark 
saying, “ I will sing soprano,” and the cascade re¬ 
plying, “ I will carry the bass,” let us leave it to the 
owl to hoot, and the frog to croak, and the bear to 
growl, and the grumbler to find fault. 

-- 

PUTTING UP O’ THE STOVE; OR, THE 
RIME OF THE ECONOMICAL 
HOUSEHOLDER. 

HE melancholy days have come that no 
ftfc householder loves, 

liP,vBI Days of taking down of blinds and putting 
up of stoves; 

The lengths of pipe forgotten lie in the shadow of the 
shed, 

Dinged out of symmetry they be and all with rust 
are red; 

The husband gropes amid the mass that he placed 
there anon, 

And swears to find an elbow-joint and eke a leg are 
gone. 

So fared it with good Mister Brown, when his spouse 
remarked : “ Behold ! 

Unless you wish us all to go and catch our deaths of 
cold, 

Swift be yon stove and pipes from out their storing 
place conveyed, 

And to black-lead and set them up, lo ! I will lend 
my aid.” 

This, Mr. Brown, he trembling heard, I trow his 
heart was sore, 

For he was married many years, and had been there 
before, 













MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


412 

And timidly he said, “ My love, perchance, the better 
plan 

’Twere to hie to the tinsmith’s shop and bid him send 
a man ? ” 

His spouse replied indignantly: “ So you would have 
me then 

To waste our substance upon riotous tinsmith’s 
journeymen ? 

‘A penny saved is twopence earned,’ rash prodigal of 
pelf, 

Go! false one, go! and I will black and set it up 
myself.” 

When thus she spoke the husband knew that she had 
sealed his doom ; 

“ Fill high the bowl with Samian lead and gimme 
down that broom,” 

He cried ; then to the outhouse marched. Apart the 
doors he hove 

And closed in deadly conflict with his enemy, the 
stove. 

Round 1. 

They faced each other; Brown, to get an opening 
sparred 

Adroitly. His antagonist was cautious—on its 
guard. 

Brown led off with his left to where a length of 
stovepipe stood, 

And nearly cut his fingers off". ( The stove allowed 
first blood .) 

Round 2. 

Brown came up swearing, in Graeco-Roman style, 

Closed with the stove, and tugged and strove at it a 
weary while; 

At last the leg he held gave way ; flat on his back 
fell Brown, 

And the stove fell on top of him and claimed the 
First Knock-down. 

* * * The fight is done and Brown has won ; his 
hands are rasped and sore, 

And perspiration and black-lead stream from his 
every pore; 

Sternly triumphant, as he gives his prisoner a shove, 

He cries, “ Where, my good angel, shall I 'put this 
blessed stove ? ” 

And calmly Mrs. Brown to him she indicates the 

spot, 

And bids him keep his temper, and remarks that be 
looks hot, 

And now comes in the sweat 0 ’ the day; the Brown 
holds in his gripe 


And strives to fit a six-inch joint into a five-inch 
pipe; 

He hammers, dinges, bends, and shakes, while his 
wife scornfully 

Tells him how she would manage if only she were he. 

At last the joints are joined, they rear a pyramid in 
air, 

A tub upon the table, and upon the tub a chair, 

And on chair and supporters are the stovepipe and 
the Brown, 

Like the lion and the unicorn, a-fighting for the 
crown ; 

While Mistress Brown, she cheerily says to him, “ I 
expec’ 

’Twould be just like your clumsiness to fall and break 
your neck.” 

Scarce were the piteous accents said before she was 
aware 

Of what might be called “ a miscellaneous music in 
the air.” 

And in wild crash and confusion upon the floor rained 
down 

Chairs, tables, tubs, and stovepipes, anathemas, and 
—Brown. 

There was a moment’s silence—Brown had fallen on 
the cat; 

She was too thick for a book-mark, but too thin for 
a mat; 

And he was all wounds and bruises, from his head to 
his foot, 

And seven breadths of Brussels were ruined with the 
soot. 

“ 0 wedded love, how beautiful, how sweet a thing 
thou art! ” 

Up from her chair did Mistress Brown, as she saw 
him falling, start, 

And shrieked aloud as a sickening fear did her 
inmost heartstrings gripe, 

“Josiah Winterbotham Brown, have you gone and 
smashed that pipe ? ” 

Then fiercely starts that Mr. Brown, as one that had 
been wode, 

And big his bosom swelled with wrath, and red his 
visage glowed; 

M ild rolled his eye as he made reply (and his voice 
was sharp and shrill), 

“ I have n °L madam, but, by—by—bv the nine gods, 
I will!” & 

He swung the pipe above his head; he dashed it on 
the floor, 





MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


And that stovepipe, as a stovepipe, it did exist no 
more; 

Then lie strode up to his shrinking wife, and his face 
was stern and wan, 

And in a hoarse, changed voice he hissed: 

“ Send for that tinsmith's man ! ” 


o* 


THE POOR INDIAN! 

KNOW him by his falcon eye, 

His raven tress and mien of pride; 
Those dingy draperies, as they fly, 

Tell that a great soul throbs inside! 

No eagle-feathered crown he wears, 

Capping in pride his kingly brow; 

But his crownless hat in grief declares, 

“ I am an unthroned monarch now 1 ” 

“ 0 noble son of a royal line ! ” 

I exclaim, as I gaze into his face, 

11 How shall I knit my soul to thine ? 

How right the wrongs of thine injured race? 

u What shall I do for thee, glorious one ? 

To soothe thy sorrows my soul aspires. 

Speak ! and say how the Saxon’s son 

May atone for the wrongs of his ruthless sires ! ” 

He speaks, he speaks !—that noble chief! 

From his marble lips deep accents come; 

And I catch the sound of his mighty grief,—■ 

“ Pie ’ gi ’ me tree cent for git some rum ? ” 



JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC. 

ARIA ANN recently determined to go to a 
picnic. 

Maria Ann is my wife—unfortunately 
she had planned it to go alone, so far as I am con¬ 
cerned, on that picnic excursion; but when I heard 
about it, I determined to assist. 

She pretended she was very glad; I don’t believe 
she was. 

“ It will do you good to get away from your work 
a day, poor fellow,” she said; “ and we shall so much 
enjoy a cool morning ride on the cars, and a dinner 
in the woods.” 

On the morning of that day, Maria Ann got up at 
five o’clock. About three minutes later she disturbed 



413 

my slumbers, and told me to come to breakfast. I 
told her I wasn't hungry, but it didn't make a bit of 
difference, I had to get up. The sun was up ; I had 
no idea that the sun began his business so early in 
the morning, but there he was. 

“ Now,” said Maria Ann, “ we must fly around, 
for the cars start at half-past six. Eat all the break¬ 
fast you can, for you won’t get anything more before 
noon.” 

I could not eat anything so early in the morning. 
There was ice to be pounded to go around the pail of 
ice cream, and the sandwiches to be cut, and I 
thought I would never get the legs of the chicken 
fixed so I could get the cover on the big basket. 
Maria Ann flew around and piled up groceries for me 
to pack, giving directions to the girl about taking 
care of the house, and putting on her dress all at 
once. There is a deal of energy in that woman, 
perhaps a trifle too much. 

At twenty minutes past six I stood on the front 
steps, with a basket on one arm and Maria Ann’s 
waterproof on the other, and a pail in each hand, and 
a bottle of vinegar in my coat-skirt pocket. There 
was a camp-chair hung on me somewhere, too, but I 
forget just where. 

“Now,” said Maria Ann, “we must run or we 
shall not catch the train.” 

“ Maria Ann,” said I, “ that is a reasonable idea. 
How do you suppose I can run with all this freight? ” 

“ You must, you brute. You always try to tease 
me. If you don’t want a scene on the street, you 
will start, too.” 

So I ran. 

I had one comfort, at least. Maria Ann fell down 
and broke her parasol. She called me a brute again 
because I laughed. She drove me all the way to the 
depot at a brisk trot, and we got on the cars; but 
neither of us could get a seat, and I could not find a 
place where I could set the things down, so I stood 
there and held them. 

“ Maria,” I said, “ how is this for a cool morning 
ride ? ” 

Said she, “ You are a brute, Jenkins.” 

Said T, “ You have made that observation before, 
my love.” 

I kept my courage up, yet I knew there would be 
an hour of wrath when we got home. While we 
were getting out of the cars, the bottle in my ooat- 

















4 T 4 


MISCELLANEOUS MARTEEPTECES. 


pocket broke, and consequently l had one boot half¬ 
full of vinegar all day. That kept me pretty quiet, 
and Maria Ann ran off with a big whiskered music- 
teacher, and lost her fan, and got her feet wet, and 
tore her dress, and enjoyed herself so much , after the 
fashion of picnic-goers. 

I thought it would never come dinner-time, and 
Maria Ann called me a pig because I wanted to open 
our basket before the rest of the baskets were opened. 

At last dinner came—the “ nice dinner in the 
woods,” you know. Over three thousand little red 
ants had got into our dinner, and they were worse to 
pick out than fish-bones. The ice-cream had melted, 
and there was no vinegar for the cold meat, except 
what was in my boot, and, of course, that was of no 
immediate use. The music-teacher spilled a cup of 
hot coffee on Maria Ann’s head, and pulled all the 
frizzles out trying to wipe off the coffee with his 
handkerchief. Then I sat on a piece of raspberry- 
pie, and spoiled my white pants, and concluded I 
didn’t want anything more. I had to stand up 
against a tree the rest of the afternoon. The day 
offered considerable variety, compared to everyday 
life, but there were so many drawbacks that I did not 
enjoy it so much as I might have done. 




SEWING ON A BUTTON. 

BY J. M. BAILEY. 

T is bad enough to see a bachelor sew on a 
button, but he is the embodiment of grace 
alongside of a married man. Necessity has 
compelled experience in the case of the former, 
but the latter has always depended upon some one 
else for this service, and fortunately, for the sake of 
society, it is rarely he is obliged to resort to the 
needle himself. Sometimes the patient wife scalds 
her right hand or runs a sliver under the nail of the 
index finger of that hand, and it is then the man 
clutches the needle around the neck, and forgetting 
to tie a knot in the thread commences to put on the 
button. It is always in the morning, and from five 
to twenty minutes after he is expected to be down 
street. He lays the button exactly on the site of its 
predecessor, and pushes the needle through one eye, 
and carefully draws the thread after, leaving about 
three inches of it sticking up for a leeway. He says 



to himself,—“ Well, if women don’t have the easiest 
time I ever see.” Then he comes back the other 
way, and gets the needle through the cloth well 
enough, and lays himself out to find the eye, but in 
spite of a great deal of patient jabbing, the needle 
point persists in bucking against the solid parts of 
that button, and, finally, when he loses patience, his 
fingers catch the thread, and that three inches he 
had left to hold the button slips through the eye 
in a twinkling, and the button rolls leisurely across 
the floor. He picks it up without a single remark, 
out of respect to his children, and makes another 
attempt to fasten it. This time when coming back 
with the needle he keeps both the thread and button 
from slipping by covering them with his thumb, and 
it is out of regard for that part of him that he feels 
around for the eye in a very careful and judicious 
manner; but eventually losing his philosophy as the 
search becomes more and more hopeless, he falls to 
jabbing about in a loose and savage manner, and it is 
just then the needle finds the opening, and comes 
up through the button and part way through his 
thumb with a celerity that no human ingenuity can 
guard against. Then he lays down the things, with 
a few familiar quotations, and presses the injured 
hand between his knees, and then holds it under the 
other arm, and finally jams it into his mouth, and all 
the while he prances about the floor, and calls upon 
heaven and earth to witness that there has never 
been anything like it since the world was created, 
and howls, and whistles, and moans, and sobs. After 
awhile, he calms down, and puts on his pants, and 
fastens them together with a stick, and goes to his 
business a changed man. 


CASEY AT THE BAT. 

(Often recited by DeWolf Hopper, the comic opera 
singer, between tlie acts.) 


HERE was ease in Casey’s manner as he 
stepped into his place, 

There was pride in Casey’s bearing, and a 
smile on Casey’s face ; 

And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed 
his hat, 

No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at 
the bat. 


















MISCEL LA N EOtTS M A ST EE PIECES. 


Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his 
hands with dirt, 

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped 
them on his shirt; 

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into 
his hip, 

Defiance glanced in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled 
Casey’s lip. 

And now the leather-covered sphere came whirling 
thro’ the air, 

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur 
there; 

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped. 

“ That ain’t my style,” said Casey, “ Strike one,” 
the umpire said. 

From the benches, black with people, there went up 
a muffled roar, 

Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and 
distant shore; 

“Kill him! kill the umpire! ” shouted some one on 
the stand. 

And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey 
raised his hand. 

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage 
shone, 

He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on ; 

He signalled to the pitcher, and once more the 
spheroid flew, 

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, 
“ Strike two.” 

“ Fraud ! ” cried the maddened thousands, and the 
echo answered, “ Fraud ! ” 

But the scornful look from Casey, and the audience 
was awed; 

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his 
muscles strain, 

And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go 
by again. 

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lips, his teeth are 
clenched in hate, 

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the 
plate; 

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets 
it go. 

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s 
blow. 

Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is 
shining bright, 

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere 
hearts are light; 


4 X 5 

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere 
children shout, 

But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has 
struck out. 


THE MAGICAL ISLE. 

HERE’S a magical isle in the River of Time, 
Where softest of echoes are straying ; 
And the air is as soft as a musical chime. 
Or the exquisite breath of a tropical clime 
When June with its roses is swaying. 

’Tis where memory dwells with her pure golden hue 
And music forever is flowing: 

While the low-murmured tones that come trembling 
through 

Sadly trouble the heart, yet sweeten it too, 

As the south wind o’er water when blowing. 

There are shadowy balls in that fairy-like isle, 

Where pictures of beauty are gleaming; 

Yet the light of their eyes, and their sweet, sunny 
smile, 

Only flash round the heart with a wildering wile, 

And leave us to 'know ’tis but dreaming. 

And the name of this isle is the Beautiful Past, 

And we bury our treasures all there: 

There are beings of beauty too lovely to last; 

There are blossoms of snow, with the dust o’er them 
cast; 

There are tresses and ringlets of hair. 

There are fragments of song only memory sings, 

And the words of a dear mother’s prayer; 

There’s a harp long unsought, and a lute without 
strings— 

Hallowed tokens that love used to wear. 

E’en the dead—the bright, beautiful dead—there 
arise, 

With their soft, flowing ringlets of gold : 

Though their voices are hushed, and o’er their sweet 

eyes, 

The unbroken signet of silence now lies, 

They are with us again, as of old. 

In the stillness of night, hands are beckoning there, 
And, with joy that is almost a pain, 

We delight to turn back, and in wandering there, 
Through the shadowy halls of the island so fair, 

We behold our lost treasures again. 

Oh ! this beautiful isle, with its phantom-like show, 
Is a vista exceedingly bright: 

And the River of Time, in its turbulent flow, 

Is oft soothed by the voices we heard long ago, 

When the years were a dream of delight. 











6 22 






































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